


Winter

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Handcuffs, Human/Monster Romance, Oral Sex, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, actually just a belt, blowjob, fae, penetration sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-04 10:38:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17896877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: It's well below freezing, a storm on the near horizon. Your car is a burning mess of metal and smoke, your phone still where you left it inside. The nearest town is too far for you to walk in these conditions, but there is a large mansion just a few minutes away. Surely, you can find refuge there.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 500 followers to me! 
> 
> For those who don't follow me on tumblr, this fic is a celebration for me hitting the big 500. I made a poll for everyone to take, filled with options for monsters, tropes, and settings. This is the first part of the story my followers have helped to write. I hope you all enjoy!

Everything is black.

 

Then there is an explosion of pain. On the side of your head, where you ram it against the car door. The top of your knee, from a shard of glass. Something hard hits your chest and face, knocking the air out of your lungs and bringing tears to your eyes. First a shattering boom, then shrill whining echoes in your ears. Through the ruckus, you forget to breathe, your insides burning with the dull sensation of emptiness. You can’t see, everything is a single, homogenous entity, colors dull and shapes blurry. The sickening smell of gas permeates the air… and you think… you think…

 

You wake again, pleasantly warm. Surely, this is home, and you are in your bed… with… a bright orange flame… and smoke, oh god,  _smoke!_

 

The window of your driver’s door is almost completely destroyed. By some miracle, you manage to undo your seatbelt and wiggle through the opening, shards of glass dig into your palms and knees. You drag yourself onto the freezing ground, arms forward, just a little bit at a time, watching numbly as the fire spreads from the engine to the fabrics inside.

 

Panic hits you as swiftly as an oncoming freight train. Hastily, you pat your pockets but come up with exactly nothing. Christ… your  _phone_  is still in there, and your  _wallet,_  what the hell are you supposed to do now?

 

As if to answer with a tone of spite, the flames burn higher, licks of yellow and red flickering at the sky.

 

It takes an effort to stand, one of your legs aching especially bad, but you manage. You try to think, what stretch of road are you on? After a moment, you remember, having to squint your eyes to find familiar landmarks. Where’s the nearest house? Taking in a chilly huff of air, you fold your arms over your chest and concentrate. All the homes out here at least a couple of kilometers apart, if not dozens. Teeth already beginning to chatter, you limp up to the concrete road.

 

Oh,  _oh!_  You remember passing near a large looking manor just a bit back. It couldn’t have been very far, and it’s a safer bet than wandering the other direction for who knows how long. Besides, chances are, some other car is going to pass by as see you, right? Right. Gritting your teeth, you begin to walk, sticking close to the painted yellow lines of the street, hoping to whatever deity is listening that someone just happens to be driving on the same road in the insanely bad weather conditions.

 

You get to a tall, ice-coated black gate, attached to a long, dark stone wall spanning into the woods as far as you can make out. There are no buzzers or bells you can see, no way to tell whoever this place belongs to that you need help. When you poke at the lock to check if you could somehow open it yourself, it swings away from the latch, screeching as it goes. Unlocked. Huh. Hesitantly, you step through, a chill running down your body like a spider.

 

A snowflake falls onto your hand, a pinprick of cold spiking in your nerves as you follow a slick cobblestone path down into the forest, towards a building peeking up from the trees. The point of simply calling the day ‘cold’ has long past.  _Frigid_  is a good word, paired with  _bitter._  Your hands, gloveless, are burning. Blowing on them doesn’t work because your lungs don’t have enough time to properly heat the air. Your eyes sting as a light breeze hits you full in the face, your nose too numb to feel if it’s dripping or not. Everything hurts,  _everything hurts._

 

Statues stare down at you from their perches, indifferent to the pains of the flesh. Trying to keep your mind off your stiffening fingertips, you stare carefully at each of the delicately carved faces as you pass, almost in awe of the craftsmanship, the gestures of the veils, the intricacies of the hair, the gentle folds of the clothing. As you near the mansion, you can see that the same kind of care had been put into the sweeping architecture. Long, thin arches, cut and built with a precision that only a master of the craft could possibly accomplish. Twin towers on either side of the building puncture the sky, the roofing sharp and pointed. It is as though someone picked up a gothic cathedral and dropped it in the middle of the woods.

 

You take a step forward, pulling up the fabric of your sleeve to protect your skin against the frozen copper of the door knocker, a large ring held by a scowling gargoyle’s face. As loudly as you can muster, you  _clunk, clunk, clunk_  the metal against the thick wood of the door, biting your lip and listening for any footsteps. Nothing. You do it again, using both hands this time, the shock of the impact running up your arms and hurting your shoulders.

 

This must be someone’s vacation home, you conclude, trying to handle to see if it’s unlocked. It doesn’t budge. You let out a frustrated breath, then try kicking it with your foot like you’ve seen on tv, which doesn’t work and only sends a stab of pain to your ankle. You quickly give up, deciding to circle the building like a vulture, hoping to find some other way to get in. Maybe they left some back door unlocked, or perhaps a window unlatched.

 

Whoever lives here is remarkably and unfortunately thorough, because after coming across a couple of high and thin windows that are not only locked from the inside, but are also are made with thick metal frames, leaving very little glass for you to break and wiggle through.  _I’m going to die out here,_  you think, a calm washing over you at the thought. Maybe you should lay down, just for a minute. Just to rest. You’re tired. You’re hungry. You just need a minute to recuperate.

 

A cellar door, wood half rotten from exposure, is only a few meters away. You can check that one thing out,  _you can do it._  Your limping has evolved since you can no longer feel the cut or bruises at the cost of  _all_  feeling in your legs, so you walk in a stiff, crooked manner. But you are still walking. Now in front of the cellar door, you try to see if any padlocks are locking it from the outside. Finding nothing, you close your eyes, hope, and kick at the latch.

 

A promising  _crack_  thunders through the silence of the steadily darkening snow storm. The sun has faded, the wind is blowing, and you know it’s either this or nothing. You raise your leg and bring it down on the wood again, and again, and  _again._  The wood gives, and with your next kick, your foot punches right through the door, throwing you off balance. You fall down a short flight of stairs, hitting your elbow in that one fucking place, nearly wrecking the rest of your body with its distress. It takes about a minute for you to get back up, new and improved injuries flaring with pain.

 

You look at where you have fallen. Well, it certainly looks like a cellar. Barrels line the walls, shelves of bottles and jars creating a maze that you now need to figure out how to navigate. Bracing yourself with your good arm against whatever looks like it can could your weight, you try to find some kind of way out onto the main floor. As you pass the various food, you note that none of it looks expired, in fact, there’s not a speck of mold or a bit of slime on any of the produce, as though everything’s been freshly stocked. Which is strange, because that would mean that either this place actually is populated, or  _very_ recently abandoned.

 

There, stairs. Steep, thin, and winding upwards to the main floor, with windows barely large enough to fit your hand through providing a steadily dimming light for you to see. With the absence of the biting wind, you’re body suddenly realizes how much it hurts, and so every single step is a fight for you to make, sometimes having to lift your leg with your hands in order to make it. Your lungs are wheezing like an untrained marathon runner as you manage to stumble out onto the main floor.

 

Miracle of miracles, there’s a roaring fire on the far side of the hall. That’s the best word that can be used to describe the room you’re in, an open space that must be used for hosting parties or weddings or something spectacular that needs an inordinate amount of space. It’s spacious, the ceiling several stories high, every inch painted and carved, not a single bit of space wasted to monotony. The floor is marble, you think, milky pale with gray specks and swirls, polished enough to see your reflection. By the fireplace are couches and chairs, none of them looking particularly cozy but you’re desperate enough to sacrifice your back for a good nap.

 

The rug, though. As you kneel on the ornate threads, you realize how exquisitely comfortable the carpet is, especially after being bathed in the warmth of the fire for however long it has been burning. Oh. Yes. This is nice, you decide, laying your cheek against the fuzzy ground.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

 

Your arm is nearly yanked out of its socket as someone pulls you mercilessly to your feet. Honest to god, you don’t have it in you to even focus your eyes on who is speaking. All you can manage to see is a blur of black and white and a startling bit of purple, before the edges of your vision fuzz with darkness. Your head, wow? Has it ever felt this light before? You roll your neck around, almost giggling with a strange sense of giddiness, before everything fades all at once, like a snap.

 

You wake again, sitting up with the feeling that something is… wrong. The bed is far too fluffy to be yours, the puffy quilts too colorful, too meticulously handcrafted. Your eyes flicker up, and you see what’s kicking your body into fight or flight mode. At the foot of the bed sits a figure, tall and lithe, staring down at you with such a hateful glare, it’s almost as though he wants to burn a hole through your head. You shrink in fear, a thousand different ways you’re about to be killed and eaten going through your head.

 

“What gives you the right to traverse upon my property?” He asks, voice as cold as the raging storm outside.

 

You look down at the covers to where your nearly mangled legs rest, a dull throb of pain pulsing like a drum beat. “I just need to make a call.”

 

“You just need to make a call? Then all is forgiven.  _Obviously,_  that is a valid excuse for your crime,” he mocks, mouth pulling into a cruel smile.

 

You should have stayed near your burning vehicle, you decide, knowing it’s far too late to do anything about it. “I’m sorry,” you say, hoping that’s enough for him to let you go, “I’ll leave.”

 

Pulling back the blankets back, you look at the rusty stains on your pants where you’ve bled, wishing you could just have ten minutes to note all the damage done to your body. Gritting your teeth, you will yourself to move, to swing your legs over your bed, to walk. You manage to scoot your leg over to the edge, sharp pricks of heat stabbing into your muscles, your heart clenching at the idea of having to walk more than you already have. With a considerable amount of difficulty, you manage to get your feet to the ground, bracing your arms on the blanket as you steel yourself, taking in several deep breaths.

 

Two steps. Two steps forward and your legs fail you, the fall not kind on your aching body. You grit your teeth harder, willing your tears away, and try to pull yourself back to your feet, grabbing onto the bed table for support. But your legs do not cooperate, barely functioning any better than dead weights. After a minute of struggling, you lay on the floor, too injured to feel humiliation, chest wheezing for air.

 

“It seems you are having some problems with leaving,” he says, watching you all the while. His voice sounds endlessly amused, as though this is the most entertained he’s been in years.

 

“Fuck you,” you spit out, your brain too fuzzy for normal self-preservation functions to work.

 

He clicks his tongue. “First she breaks into my house, and now she insults me?” You hear him stand, the leather of his pants crinkling as he walks over to where you lay. “Now what am I going to do with you, hm?”

 

“Call a friend of mine?” You suggest, your throat dry. “I won’t ever bother you again, I promise.”

 

“You  _promise?_  So readily?” Laughter, beautiful and terrifying, echoes through the room. “I knew humans are easy, but I didn’t realize they are  _that easy.”_

 

You don’t like this, nope, not one bit. Facing the wall is getting you nowhere, so you painfully shift to look at him. He’s close, kneeling with one leg, arms resting on the other, his white hair almost long enough to tickle your face. Those eyes, like violet stones, are cold and detached from the rest of the world. Cocking his head as though in thought, he brings one of his gloved hands to your face, tracing your jaw with his index finger.

 

“I suppose,” he muses, “that I can make you a little deal. Would you like that?”

 

You don’t answer.

 

“I’ll fix up your body up better than your charlatan doctors can, but you must do something for me in return.”

 

“What?” You grind out, knowing that humoring him might at least expand your current estimated lifespan.

 

“A curse.” He stands again, walking just a few paces away from your body. “One that only mortal hands can break.”

 

“Sure,” you say unconvincingly. “A curse. Can do.”

 

He looks at you again, eyes running from head to toe as though looking for any sign of a lie. Finding none, he comes back to you, roughly grabbing your arms to lift you up, juggling your limbs around until he’s carrying you bridal style. Unceremoniously, he dumps you back onto the bed, opening your jacket, placing a hand on your stomach. Before you can utter a word in protest, he mumbles something, and a hush falls over the room as though muffled by a blanket. Everything is still.

 

And the pain is gone.

 

You sit up as he draws away, poking at the place on your thigh that had been cut deeply with a shard of glass. No sharp burn, no aching pulse. None of your bruises are pounding, none of your cuts are stinging. You look back up to him, mouth open to scream a million questions-  _how, who, what,_  but he places a finger on his lips and smiles.

 

“Your turn, now. Get up, follow me. You’ll find your legs are in decent enough working condition.”

 

He turns his heel and walks out the door. Hastily, you follow, bouncing out of bed and onto the floor, wincing at the expectation of a shocking pain that doesn’t come. It’s as though the crash, the injuries, and all that followed never happened. “What did you do?” You ask, voice wobbling with fear.

 

He seems to enjoy that. “I simply urged your body to heal its injuries now, rather than later.”

 

That’s not really the answer you want, but you don’t push it further.

 

The hall is long and darkly lit, a chandelier of candles barely offering much more than a muted yellow glow. The ceiling looks like it was carved from a single piece of ebony, seamless, decorated with laurel leaves and dancing cherubs. There are dozens of windows lining the outer facing wall, each of them showing the roaring gray of a blizzard. Thunder explodes in the distance, the wind rocketing itself against the glass as though trying to break through to get you.

 

“In here,” he says, opening a thick door. More stairs, much like the one connecting the basement and main floor, a thin passage that curls steeply upwards.

 

“Do you have a name?” You ask quietly, not wanting to rock your boat too much as you step through the door.

 

“Of course I do.”

 

You wait for him to elaborate, and when he doesn’t, you ask, “is there something you go by?”

 

There’s a pause, as he mulls over your request. “You may call me the Sinner.”

 

Oh, well that’s not foreboding  _at all._

 

You must be in one of the towers, you realize, as the stairs just seem to go on and on. Eventually, you step out into a large room, though the clutter makes everything appear much smaller. A telescope is leaning over a stack of books, papers and bottles of ink covering almost every conceivable surface, shelves of containers with various colored liquids churning, glowing, wisping within the glass. This looks like the room of an absolute madman.

 

The Sinner leads you to a desk, the only thing in the entire room without an abundance of mess on it. It looks as though someone had swiped everything off in a fit of anger, a pile of papers and books tossed carelessly to one side. At its center is a glass case, a soft, green light pulsing from a jewel about the size of your thumbnail. It sits on a red velvet pillow, such a small thing, but you can feel a vibration of power in the air. At its base, you see a metal plate, with the inscription that states,  _Si vis vivere possit absque calore datur tempore toto corde tuo, et quoque terra potest anima tua._

 

“Do you speak Latin?” The Sinner asks, creeping up to look over your shoulder.

 

“Um-”

 

“It says,” he translates without giving you a moment to answer,  _“if you can live without warmth in your heart, so too can the soul of your land.”_  The Sinner waits, staring at you, as though some significant epiphany is supposed to hit you. When no immediate understanding crosses your face, he sighs impatiently. “This is the heart of my kingdom.”

 

You nod as though you are  _totally_  following him.

 

_“Tantum in hoc facinore caritatem tenet in corde, non potest esse in re aperuit.”_ The Sinner takes a gloved finger and runs it down the sharp edge of the case. “Only a person who can love can open this.” 

 

You frown, “that’s-”

 

“I’m  _paraphrasing,”_  the Sinner snaps, “but it should stand to reason that you, a human, with your remarkably short lifespan and desperate desire for ridiculous connections, is capable of love. Open the case.”

 

“And you’re not?” You ask, glaring.

 

“Human? No.”

 

“I mean capable of love,” you quickly recover.

 

The Sinner stares at you, incredulous, as though you suggested that he take a knife and gut himself right in front of you. “I’m  _Fae,”_  he says, as though that explains everything.

 

You look back at the glass, placing your hand over the top. Inside, you can feel a steady thrum of energy, pulsing, boiling, begging to be released. There are no seams in the glass, as though this was impossibly molded around the gem and pillow. Without anything else to do, you try to lift the top, prying at the smooth glass to find any kind of hold you can dig your nails in. You struggle for a few minutes, walking around the desk to try a different vantage point, pushing it over to see if there’s a trap door underneath the pillow, shoving it onto the ground in hopes it would shatter. Nothing happens, and even the jewel stays put like it’s glued to the cushion.

 

Only when you try kicking it across the room does the Sinner sigh. “Stop. That’s enough.”

 

You turn back around to see him, one arm on his hip, face twisted with disappointment. “So… can I go?”

 

His glare darkens. “Have you broken the curse?”

 

“Um, no, but-”

 

“No excuses,” he snarls, “so long as the roots of this curse strangle my home, you will remain here.”

 

You look at the door. There’s no way you can make a break for it now, you don’t know the layout of the house… tonight, while he’s asleep, you’ll try to find your way back through to the cellar. That’s the only guaranteed exit that you know won’t be deadbolted and locked.

 

Abruptly, the Sinner turns, his cloak flowing around him like a strike of darkness, and walks back towards the stairs. Without anything better to do, you follow him, struggling to keep up with his brisk stride. As soon as the both of you are back to the hall, he says, without looking back, “you may stay in the room you woke up in. When I need your assistance, I will find you.”

 

“Hey-”

 

“In the powder room, you will find a bath drawn. I suggest you bathe now before the water gets cold.” Without further instructions, he enters one of the rooms, a loud click coming from the lock.

 

Defeated, you wander back, trying to remember exactly where you started, shaking the door handles to see if any of them are unlocked. It takes a bit, but you finally find the familiar room, the entrance opening noiselessly after you barely touch the knob. True to the Sinner’s words, in the adjacent bathroom, a porcelain tub of water sits, steam wafting up invitingly. On autopilot at this moment, you strip down, stepping inside, the heat from the water soothing your stiff muscles.

 

You hold your bare arm out in front of you, checking absentmindedly for any wounds he might of left, but there’s nothing besides that oddly shaped birthmark on your wrist. It’s not particularly noticeable, just a shade darker than your normal skin tone, but you’ve always thought it was strange. There’s a central blob, then five separate paths running around your wrist. An awful lot like a handprint, someone pointed out once while you were showing it off.

 

After the bath, you find your clothes gone, replaced by a neatly folded blouse made from finely woven cotton, and a long, gray woolen skirt that falls past your ankles. Your shoes are still there, a new pair of stockings lying atop them. No bra, but there is a shawl you can use as a second layer. No one had come in, you are certain of that, so how did-

 

A knock nearly sends your soul to the astral plane. “Yes?” You ask, unsurely.

 

“Dinner is ready.” It’s the Sinner, you can recognize the aura of negativity through the bathroom’s door.

 

“I’m not hungry.” You are, but you don’t want to eat with a psychopath who probably poisoned your food.

 

A beat of silence, then, simply, “your decision.”

 

You can hear him leave, waiting for the sound of your door closing before you let out an anxious breath. Hesitantly, you peak out the keyhole, just to make sure he’s gone before slinking back into your room, your nerves fritzing out like the floor itself is pulsing with electricity. Without anything else to do, you climb up onto the bed, the thing wide enough to hold four people comfortably, and bury yourself under the many covers. The wind screams to be let in, slamming against the windowpane in a merciless assault, the metal frame creaking from the pressure. You curl into a ball, closing your eyes, trying to still your beating heart as you listen to the racket, every single noise like a warning that someone is trying to get in. It’s too much to ignore, yet you manage to relax your quaking body enough to hazily snooze, half awake, until the storm is over.

 

 _You’re falling,_  your body says, and you jump like you’ve been shocked. The silence is deafening, an almost violent change to the harshness from earlier in the evening. Moonlight seeps through the three windows of the room, bright enough for you to see marginally well. Tightening the shawl around your shoulders, you slip out of bed, sliding your feet into your shoes in one fluid movement. After listening to the door for just a moment, you open it a crack, searching for any sign of the Sinner before squeezing through the opening.

 

You place a hand on the wall, then start walking opposite of the tower’s staircase in a directional gamble (and you also don’t want to pass the room you saw the Sinner enter). It pays off, as soon enough you find a broad set of stairs, the center case heading downward. Gripping the banister tightly, you stick close to the wall in order to avoid any excessive creaking. Every slight noise might as well be a gunshot, your heart nearly giving out when you step wrong, a quiet thump resonating through the air.

 

The main story is even more terrifying in the dead of night, the statues along the wall glaring down at you in silent judgment. The marble of the floor is more forgiving than the fickle wood of the stairs, your steps mostly noiseless. The fire is now nothing but dully crackling embers, the temperature continuously dropping as you wander, breath condensing as you breathe. You find yourself walking the length of the great hall twice just to locate the staircase to the cellar, the repeating patterns of the walls and pillars confusing your sense of direction.

 

 _Yes!_  You found them, rushing down almost too quickly to keep your balance, your shoulders continuously bumping into the wall. Vaguely remembering the way to the cellar door, you weave through the shelves until you come to the wooden step ladder you had fallen down when you first entered, the doors still in pieces on the floor.

 

And standing right under the opening, the Sinner.

 

“What do you think you are doing?” He looks at you, arms crossed, face carefully devoid of all emotions.

 

“I was just…” There is no use lying, you both know what you are up to. “Trying to leave.”

 

He nods, once, eyes cold and dangerous in ivory moonlight. Without a word, he raises his pale fingers and snaps.

 

It’s like a truck hitting you head-on, your flesh ripping back open in the places that had been healed, the muscles in your legs spasming as though being brutalized from the inside. You collapse to your knees, your fingertips burning with cold, eyes stinging with a bitter dryness. A whimper escapes your throat against your will.

 

“Know this,” the Sinner says, voice as cold and unforgiving as winter, “as easily as I have healed you, I can undo it all. You will help me whether you want to or not, and you will do it with a body that is barely held together if need be.”

 

It hurts,  _it hurts._

 

“Get yourself off the floor, it’s pathetic,” the Sinner smirks as he leaves, boots clicking away on the stone. The light is gone now, blocked out by the newly repaired trapdoor, a lock shiny enough to flicker in the darkness.

 

So close, you lament as you cry as silently, tears the only source of warmth on your face,  _yet so far._

 

You try crawling forward, your legs dragging behind you, arms burning like you’ve stuck them in a fire, and you can’t,  _you can’t do it._  You curl up into a ball, hands close to your face for the warmth of your breath, fading in and out of consciousness as you desperately try to rest. If it weren’t for the wool of your skirt or the fluffy knitted shawl, you would surely freeze to death sometime during the night, corpse as frozen solid as the statues that decorate the halls and yard.

 

When you wake, you are still on the stone floor of the cellar. The Sinner stands just a few paces away, looking down at your mangled limbs in distaste. “Breakfast is ready.”

 

The limbs uninjured enough to move are stiff from sleeping in an uncomfortable position, but you manage to arrange your body to sit. “I can’t move,” you spit hatefully, glaring daggers up at him.

 

“You seemed to move just fine there,” the Sinner says, turning around to leave.

 

In a combination of hatred and an absence of self-preservation, you call out, fingers flat against the burning cold of the floor. “You were right.”

 

He pauses, turning his head to hear what you have to say.

 

“You aren’t capable of compassion, much less love.” That’s all the energy you have before you give up, laying your head back on the floor. Funny to think about how this is going to be your last resting place.

 

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, coming closer. The Sinner kneels too close to your wheezing body, taking your chin in his hand, digging his gloved fingers painfully into your skin. “But I protect my investments. You don’t deserve to die yet, human girl, not before you’ve held up your end of the bargain.”

 

The Sinner isn’t gentle when he lifts you up into his arms, his grip harsh against your aching skin, nor does he seem particularly concerned by your dangling limbs as they smack limply against the walls and shelves. You don’t feel anything more than the impact, though, your body’s pain receptors too frazzled at that point to feel any more pain.

 

You thought he would maybe dump you in front of the fire, but he walks up the impossibly large amount of stairs to the upper floor, all the way to the bedroom you slept in. The door opens for him as though he willed it to before he steps through the threshold, walking straight to the puffy mattress. Instead of leaving, after he sets you down, the Sinner opens the center of the shawl, laying his hand on your stomach.

 

And the pain is gone.

 

“Do not disappoint me again,” he warns, the door slamming behind him as he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently working on a chapter two, stay with me! 
> 
> -  
> *Youtuber voice* If you liked what you read, smash that kudos button! Want to tell me how much you liked this fic? Leave me a comment! Want to keep tabs on my writings? Subscribe and you get a free (yes, FREE) email every time I publish a fic! Want me to write more? Shower me with praise because positive reinforcement motivates me to work!


	2. Obsession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, because I enjoyed writing it :)

“The library again?”

 

His voice is almost condescending, though not to the situation, just in general. You don’t think he can say anything and not sound like a total prick even if his life depended on it.

 

“Hard at work trying to undo this curse!” Your cheerfulness drips with venom, and you wish it could burn him up on the inside so you could run away free.

 

“I see.” The Sinner stares at where you hide, behind the wall of books you had meticulously stacked. “And I suppose this is some sort of way to categorize what you’re studying.”

 

“Oh yeah, very delicate operation I’m running,” you agree in a sugary voice, placing a thick volume written in a language you couldn’t hope to understand on the top of the structure to complete the tower, “you wouldn’t want to muck it up, would you?”

 

He lets out a breath, picking up the closest book, a journal you’ve already looked over, and takes a seat in the nearest armchair.

 

Annoyance sparks inside your chest because you honest to god  _cannot_  enjoy yourself around him. It’s been, you don’t know, somewhere in between weeks and months since you’ve first had the unfortunate honor of meeting this twat, and the smallest bits of joy you’ve found have been swiftly squashed by his looming presence.

 

“You know,” you say, crawling out of the tunnel you had carefully constructed, “I’m doing just fine by myself.”

 

All he offers in response is a non-committal hum.

 

“You don’t  _have_  to bother your busy self with helping  _me,_  a lowly human girl.” He usually enjoys a good amount of groveling, though you can barely keep the sarcasm out of your voice.

 

No answer. You let out a huff, wishing you can give the Sinner a piece of your mind. Every time you think of words beyond sugary irony, though, you see him looking down at your sobbing body with those destructive violet eyes, his voice hard as iron as he says  _do not disappoint me._  So you toe the line, barely getting away with sass and always jumping back if you sense any spark of frustration.

 

This is one of those many times where you roll over instead of fight, standing up and walking out of the library without a word, pulling your shawl closer to your chest. You are hungry, anyways.

 

A meal sits ready as your stride into the dining hall, the main table up on a pedestal almost overflowing with variations of breakfast foods. Everything that you could possibly think of or want is just a small percentage of what is available, there are some unfamiliar plates that you see the Sinner pick at, and a whole section full of wriggling things that you can’t even look at while you eat, much less name.

 

“You could have told me you were hungry.”

 

Urgh, he’s behind you. “I didn’t want to bother your Majesty, you seemed awfully busy.”

 

“I wasn’t,” the Sinner responds, his voice almost clipped.

 

“Oh.” You begin to pile food onto your plate, ignoring him.

 

After a few minutes of silence, the Sinner asks, “have you found anything worth my attention?”

 

“I haven’t.” You say, poking at your food to hide your frustration. “And it might help me out greatly if you’d tell me about what happened-”

 

_”No.”_

 

You let out a sigh of frustration. It might help you if he talked about how he was cursed, or, for that matter,  _why,_  but every time you bring it up, you can hear the  _Kill Bill_  sirens screaming in his head as he shuts you down without even giving you a reason why. There’s the Latin inscription, instructing him to learn how to be a decent person, but you can’t get him to do that, either. What you’re stuck with is trying to figure out how to circumvent that task, really just a way to break into the case with the jewel.

 

He narrows his eyes, suspicious of your silence. “If you dare try hiding any information from me-”

 

“I would  _never_  hide anything from you, do you know why?” You snap, your patience lost. “Because I want to fucking leave, and I can’t, or else you’ll snap your pretty pixie fingers and destroy my kneecaps.”

 

The Sinner stops trying to talk after that, his glare now focused on his plate, teeth grinding as though stopping himself from ramming your head into the table.

 

You finish, leaving your plate for whatever magical entity cleans it up, heading back to the library. The book fort you spent two days building sits in the reading area, the unfinished part beckoning you to continue. But, for the base, you need the thickest of volumes to make a steady foundation. Already, you’ve cleared out this entire area, sorting out the books by size and width, so now you need to go further into the shelves in search of more.

 

The good book smell is probably the only thing marginally lovely about this place, and, alright, the architecture is also pretty impressive, but you feel vulnerable whenever you try to enjoy it. Here, in the library, there are thousands of hiding places you can duck into if you hear the Sinner’s steps. Unfortunately, he always finds you, somehow sensing your presence wherever you go in the spindling shelves. The effort, though, the simple act of inconveniencing him, helps you feel better.

 

Up a few paces, the light from the overhead windows seems to come to a stop, as though something is muffling the sun’s energy from entering that area. Hesitantly, you continue on through the haze of darkness, fingers traveling over the spines of the books, feeling for the amount of pages. When you begin to gather the properly sized volumes, juggling the weight in your arms, a soft crackling bids you to look.

 

One of the books fizzles with what you can only describe as dark energy. A sound like hissing water onto hot metal comes from it, a black aura waving in the air like a mirage. Cocking your head, you put down the stuff you have already gathered, taking a step closer to the shelf. Whispers, too quiet for you to make them out, surround you as you approach it, as though a crowd has gathered around the library to urge you on. When you touch the spine, a little shock runs up the length of your arm.

 

You pull it off the shelf, opening it to a random page. Running your finger down the unfamiliar script, you try to make sense of the story just based on the illustrations. It looks like some kind of scientific journal, sketchings of vials and bottles with tiny writing etched to the side, diagrams of plants and gems you never knew existed, what must be instructions arranged in the universal form of step by step. As you stare at the page in concentration, almost as though you willed it, the ink begins to warp on the yellowed pages, morphing and wriggling like it’s alive, until suddenly, it resembles your native tongue.

 

A spellbook, you realize, reading over the newly legible contents. There is a lot that you don’t understand, but as you flip over the pages,  _break_  and  _curse_  catch your eye. You read the entry, getting more and more excited with the promise of freedom. It looks like there is a master curse-breaking spell, you don’t know half of the specifics, you suppose they don’t translate well, but this is probably the most you have found since you first arrived.

 

You tuck the spellbook under your arm and start walking, your fort promptly forgotten with the promise of freedom dangling over your head. You try calling for the Sinner as you exit the library, but you don’t hear any response. He’s not in the dining hall since it must be at least an hour after breakfast, and if he’s not immediately answering you… the Sinner is probably brooding in his room. You find that whenever you want to locate him, even though the castle he has is enormous and he can be anywhere, nine times out of ten, he’s in his room doing whatever and answers when you knock. Usually, you jiggle the handle obnoxiously to emphasize your impatience when trying to get his attention, though this time, when you go for it, you find the door is unlocked.

 

“Hey!” You yell, shoving the door open with your foot, “I found something.”

 

“Have you.” The Sinner’s voice is coming from the adjacent room, probably some kind of office, and you follow it. The second door is wide open, revealing, once you get close enough, the very naked torso of the Sinner as he sits in his bathtub.

 

His snow-white hair is tied back, out of the reach of the steaming water. As though bracing for an attack, his hands grip the edge of the porcelain tub, his fingertips tinted the same blue as the ends of his pointed ears. Those eyes, violet, cold, rake at your body, running from your feet to the top of your head, flickering back down to the book you hold in your hands. “Is it common practice for humans to just barge in wherever they please?”

 

The Sinner has always worn gloves and coats, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him in anything less than three layers of clothing. It’s like jumping into a cold pool, exposing yourself to his body all at once like a sudden shock to your system, your lungs failing for just a second and your heart spasming in your chest. Face almost unbearably hot, certain you must be blushing ten shades from Sunday, you take a deep breath and try to neutralize your emotions.

 

You hold out the book. “This was in the library, near the back.”

 

He cocks an eyebrow.

 

“It’s a spellbook,” you try to search the words you had going around in your head on the way up, but your brain fails you.

 

“I can see that.”

 

Taking a deep breath, you unfold the pages of the book, finding the specific chapter about spell-breaking, and turn it around so he can see. “There’s a master curse-breaking spell, or whatever you call it.”

 

He holds out a hand, and as you offer him the book, you notice an odd discoloration on his palm and fingers, a darker blue shade in comparison to the rest of his skin. After going over a few pages, he slams it shut, stating simply, “this isn’t going to work.”

 

“Why not?” You ask, all the hope you had been feeling up to that point squashed without a shred of mercy.

 

“The greater the curse, the greater the countermeasures have to be. It’s not…” The Sinner pauses, staring straight ahead. “It’s not possible for me to do.”

 

 _“Why not?”_  You ask again, a tremble of anger running through your body.

 

“Because it isn’t, end of discussion. Put that thing back where you found it and never pick it up again.”

 

“Don’t ‘end of discussion’  _me,_  mister.” You snatch back the book, pulling it hard enough to jerk his entire body to the side, a splash of water clapping against your skirt. “If you won’t help me with this, I’ll figure it out on my own.”

 

“You do that,” he snarls, “go right ahead. Call me when you’re ready so that I may watch you fail.”

 

“I’ll do it so you can watch me  _succeed!”_  You storm out of the Sinner’s room, too angry to be embarrassed anymore. It’s one thing that he’s trapped you in here, it’s another to take away the only way for you to escape. But you will figure out how to do it, even if you have to, you don’t know,  _kill him_  in order to do so.

 

The bed he has so  _kindly_  provided has enough pillows to stack against your back so that you can sit comfortably. After placing one of the quilts over your legs, you open the book, eyes dancing over the page with the curse-breaker. It is almost as though the book  _wants_  your attention, you can feel it drawing your concentration towards it like a magnet. There is nothing else you need to do besides getting out of this hellhole, and so you devote your time and energy to the only thing you have found that might help with that.

 

You skip dinner. You don’t even notice that you are hungry until your stomach growls, but you don’t want to go downstairs to face the Sinner, so you don’t bother moving. Only when the sun makes its tentative appearance do you realize that you have read through the entire night, not even stopping once. Your throat is dry, your eyes threatening to crust shut with every blink, and even your bones creak oddly when you finally set the volume aside to slip out of bed. Thinking twice about it, you snag the book once more to read while you eat breakfast.

 

The Sinner eyes you strangely as you walk into the dining hall, moving mainly by memory, your eyes on the pages of the book. You barely spare any glances towards the food as you grab whatever you need with your dominant hand, ignoring the utensils provided on the side of the platters. This morning, as per the usual when you’re extra pissed at the Sinner, you sit at the far end of the table.

 

It takes a little work to eat, read, and not get crumbs on the page, but you manage, forging on with determination so thick, you don’t think even the Sinner’s cutting words can slice right through it. All the things you are learning! Elements soaked in the Earth’s crust that you never knew existed, creatures of the air that live so high in the atmosphere that no one knows to find them, potions and spells as practical and as extraordinary as anything human science has achieved.

 

“Have you found anything of use?” The Sinner looks over your shoulder, his voice as snide as usual.

 

There is no reason for you to fight him because nothing he can say will ever matter more than what this book can give you. Why waste your breath and your mind on something so trivial? You get up and head back to your room for some peace and quiet.

 

Cures for cancer, you can barely believe it. A way to create renewable energy that’s not only clean but so safe that even large cities can cease the use of nuclear plants. A form of birth control that merely tells a male’s body to stop producing sperm. Oh, the things you can do with this book! The lives you can change for the better! Your face hurts from smiling as you turn page after page, night after night, rarely moving from your bed except to eat and use the bathroom.

 

Simple spells, the book offers, to practice with. You need to build your skill of magic so you can do those magnificent things, start small, go large.

 

“I need a needle. Where can I find one?” You shove your way into the Sinner’s room, finding him reading in front of a crackling fire.

 

“A needle?” He looks up from his own book, looking you over.

 

“Yes. Where can I find one? Where’s the sewing stuff?”

 

The Sinner glances to where you have tucked the book under your arm, then slowly back to you. “You think you can just come into my room and demand things from me? Thinking that I won’t need anything in return?”

 

Frustration crawls through your body like a fungus, sprouting from your stomach to your clenched fist.  _Patience, ask him what he needs._  You grit your teeth and roll your eyes, spitting out, “what?”

 

“Go to the bath, get in. Once you’re dressed in new clothes, then do something about your hair,  _for christ’s sake,_  it looks like a nest of crows resides in it. You will find the needle on the pillow you most favor.”

 

“Arrogant asshole,” you hiss under your breath as you stomp out of the room.

 

 _At least he helps,_  the book croons gently, like a mother comforting her child.

 

“But he doesn’t have to be such a prick about it!”

 

 _You’re right, you’re right,_  the book amends.  _Best do what he says, though. We need to start practicing._

 

You follow the Sinner’s instructions, angrily scrubbing yourself raw in the bathtub, hastily throwing on the clothes provided, and running your fingers through the hair that has grown at least three inches longer since you first arrived. True to his word, on one of your pillows, a needle sits, glimmering from the sunlight seeping through your window.

 

Crawling under the covers with the book, you hold the pin to the flesh of your finger.

 

 _Just the tiniest poke,_  the book says reassuringly,  _only one drop should do the trick._

 

You obey, not even wincing as the cold metal slides into your skin. The written words don’t even matter anymore, you just have to repeat what the book coaches you to say, a chant in a language that you have never heard of before. The blood sizzles on your finger, then a glow forms, casting the pages in its soft, violet light.

 

_Good girl, so talented, I don’t think anyone has gotten a light so bright on the first try!_

 

“Really?” You ask, feeling warm with the praise.

 

_Would I ever lie to you? Never, my talented mage. Turn my pages, let’s continue._

 

The two of you do spells together, all simple things like dusting the room, lifting your water glass up a few inches, making ink write itself onto paper. The book encourages you further, suggesting different things, bigger things, and you continue on and on and on and on with a kind of fervor that you have never known before. You don’t realize how much time has passed until a knock comes from your door. “Who is it?” You ask, suddenly exhausted for seemingly no reason.

 

“May I come in?” It is the Sinner.

 

“Sure?” you phrase it as a question to see what he wants.

 

He steps through the door, twin braids running down on either side of his head. His gaze immediately falls on the book in your hands, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You haven’t shown up for breakfast.”

 

You blink, looking out the window. “Is it morning already? I hadn’t realized.”

 

“For three days,” the Sinner clarifies, his tone turning hard. “Nor lunch, nor dinner. Have you eaten anything during that time?”

 

“Well, um,” you look down at the book for any sort of help because you’re struggling to think.

 

 _You’re fine,_  the book offers sweetly.

 

“I’m fine,” you echo, nodding.

 

“Are you.” The Sinner takes a step forward, looking at the book with another layer of suspicion. “Let me see that,” he says, reaching over.

 

“No!” You shout, jerking backward, holding the book to your chest.

 

The Sinner glowers, eyes darkening. “Give me that book.”

 

“Get out!”

 

The Sinner takes a step closer, rage twisting his face into something deadly and terrifying as he raises his hand. Then, as though someone flips a switch, he stops. His chest heaves once with a shuddering breath, as if he is struggling to stifle the rage boiling inside his skin.

 

“Suit yourself.” His words bite like he instead wishes you to die.

 

You watch him leave, shaking with fury, clutching your treasure so tightly that the cover bites into your skin. Frustrated tears burn your eyes, leaving hot, salty trails down your face, steadily  _drip, drip, dripping_  onto the pages of the book.

 

 _There, there,_  your best friend whispers,  _you’re fine. I’m fine. Everything is going to be alright._

 

“He tried to take you from me,” you cry, sitting on the floor, numb.

 

_Don’t fret, my sweet mage, I’m still here with you._

 

“Do you think he’ll stop? He’ll try to take you when I least expect it. And eventually, he will succeed, or hurt me so I can’t protect you. What can I do?” You choke out a sob.

 

The book is silent for a moment, mulling over your distress.  _Can you be brave for me, sweet mage?_

 

You sniff, nodding.

 

_I know you want to leave this place, and I can sense what binds you here. If you do this one little thing, you can go, and take me with you. We’d be together forever._

 

“Forever?” Hope and desperation fill your chest, each fighting for more space until you can barely breathe.

 

 _Forever,_  you book purrs,  _but I don’t know if you can do what has to be done._

 

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” you say bitterly, cradling your friend in your arms like a lover.

 

Elation wafts off the cover.  _I’m so glad you feel that way, sweet mage. Let’s go find the armory. It’s time I teach you how to kill a Fae._

 

A few hours later, you stand in the hallway, only in the provided underclothes; loose white pants with strings you have to tie tightly at your hips, and a shirt without sleeves that works almost like a camisole. Your book told you that the heavy clothes you had been given would only slow your movements down, explaining that you need to be quick. You would only have one chance, once he wakes, it would be all over for you.  _He will most likely kill you,_  your friend laments,  _painfully. Ripping your limbs off one by one and laughing as you bleed out on the floor. You have to be faster than him, smarter than him, hm?_

 

“Are you sure this is the only way?” You ask, dagger heavy in your hand. A beautiful work of craftsmanship, just like the rest of the estate. A blade of silver, long as your forearm, point wickedly sharp enough to spear even a bear with one strike. The hilt has dozens of little jewels to decorate it, making the dagger almost too ornate to be considered a weapon. Instead, you think, it should be a work of art.

 

_Of course it is, do you think you’ll get out by asking nicely? But… if you don’t want to…_

 

You tighten your grip around the handle, knuckles paling under the strain. “I can do it,” you whisper, squashing down the queasy feeling churning in your stomach. Lifting your other hand, you drag the edge of the silver knife across three fingertips, a blossom of red forming around the cut. Exactly as you were taught, you place your fingers on the lock of the Sinner’s door, murmuring a few words and tracing a mark on the metalwork.

 

A quiet  _click_  is the only indication of your success. Slowly, you push the door open, the hinges thankfully silent, and take a step inside the Sinner’s room with your best friend tucked under your arm. His bed is up against the far wall, windows on either side, with a man-shaped lump under the covers that you can barely make out in the faint, flickering light of the fire. You take a silent step forward, thankful for the sounds of the fire to help cover your movements, and then another.

 

Cold seeps in from the windows, dripping down from the glass and sliding across the floor. You can barely feel your toes, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but your book. At the Sinner’s bedside, you stand, near shaking with anticipation as you glare down at his sleeping body. The moonlight frames his face like a lover, his features no longer harsh and bitter, but soft and relaxed. His shirt is off, showing the pale, icy skin of his chest, bare arms resting on either side of his body. His hair like a sea of silver on the pillow, his violet mouth open to reveal a set of fangs as he breathes. In this light, in this place, he no longer seems like he is capable of great evil.

 

But he is.

 

You raise the dagger, bringing it over his chest, exactly when a pair of violet eyes fly open. The  _smack_  of skin on skin echoes through the room as his hand reached out, just in time, to catch your wrist before the blade so much as grazes his skin. The area where he touches you suddenly feels hot, like he is enacting some sort of spell to burn your flesh. For a moment, you don’t struggle. You look at him, a kind of hatred so deeply rooted in your heart that you can barely breathe, and he looks at you, eyes wide with…  _fear,_  you discover, a shiver of pleasure running down your spine.

 

The Sinner sits up, and as he does, you lift your foot and kick him in the chest as hard as you can. The grip on your wrist slackens as he wheezes, trying to recollect the air knocked out of him, and you yank your arm away, wrist tingling with a numb sensation.

 

You still have the blade, though, and so you go for him again, slashing just the way your friend taught. He tries to roll away, though too late as you slice across his chest, a dark line of blood releasing from the confines of his body. It hurts him, you can hear an almost inaudible hiss he breathes out of his gritted teeth. You don’t give him a chance to think strategically as you jump on his bed, stabbing and cutting only air as the Sinner just barely manages to dodge your strikes. He rolls off the mattress, and you follow, dancing on the floor like you were made to kill.

 

He manages to stop your strike a second time by catching the blade with his bare hand. The skin that touches the silver  _sizzles_  as though he placed it on hot coals, blood seeping out from where the edges cut into his skin. You summon all your strength and push, trying to bring the point to his eye, hoping that if you can’t kill him, you can at least blind him.

 

Entirely too focused on bringing the knife down on his face, you don’t notice his other hand snaking around, grasping for the book until he pulls it out from your grip. You  _scream,_  pulling the knife back, cutting deeply across his hand, then bring it down once more, just barely missing his throat as he jerks away. With one fluid motion, he dodges another attack, swinging around your slash, and tosses your best friend into the crackling fire.

 

Your book, your best friend, your  _savior,_  wails so loudly your ears ache as it burns,  _burns_  alive.

 

 _”No!”_  You shriek, dropping the knife and lunging forward. On your knees, you scramble towards the fire, arms outstretched, ready to plunge them into the crackling wood to save your friend.

 

The Sinner grabs your ankle, yanking you back with such force, you taste blood as your chin hits the floor. Stars waltz along the blackening edges of your vision as you claw at the threads of the rug, desperately searching for any kind of purchase as he drags you away from the fire. You thrash violently, kicking your legs up and down to try and wrench out of his hold, you scream and spit, trying to bite any fingers that dare stray too close to your face.

 

Even though you struggle, he manages to get your freezing body in some kind of hold, legs locked around your knees to keep you from kicking, arms firmly around your torso. He has you on your side, your hip digging painfully into the floor, your fingers desperately trying to grasp something, anything that could either help drag you from his grasp, or use against him as a weapon, all the while your  _only friend_  is burning alive in the fireplace.

 

The cover warps, the pages curling at the ends, turning black first, then white as it slowly becomes nothing but ash.  _Help me,_  your friend howls, slamming against the inside of your skull with its volume,  _it hurts, it hurts!_

 

“I’m trying!” You sob, stretching your arm and shoulder as far as they can go, but you can’t even reach the fire pokers settled to the side.

 

Your best friend shrieks with pain, your eyes turning red as something wet and coppery drips down from your nose. Even though you know it’s fruitless, you continue to struggle, trying to wriggle from the Sinner’s grasp, hoping to free one of your legs so you can kick him on the kneecap. With one final  _crack,_  the spine breaks in half, one last deafening wail thundering inside your head. You scream with it, tears pouring out of your eyes as though your own heart has been ripped out, nails digging into the rug in one last attempt to pull yourself forward.

 

The Sinner holds fast, steady rock in your hurricane of angry sobs. Only when the book crumbles around the logs does he dare loosen his grip slightly. He pets you with his good hand, stroking his fingers through the strands of your hair as you stare, numbly, into the flames as though you can will your friend back into existence. He holds you even when you stop feeling the need to fight, limply laying against his shoulder until the early hours of the morning.

 

Only when the sun peeks out from behind the clouds, only when the fire is reduced to smoldering ash, only when you breathe one last shuddering sob does he let you go, untangling his limbs from yours.

 

Without speaking a single word to him, you stand up, then walk back to your room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as one can see, i take this 'enemies to lovers' tag SUPER fucking serious. 
> 
> *Youtuber voice* If you liked what you read, smash that kudos button! Want to tell me how much you liked this fic? Leave me a comment! Want to keep tabs on my writings? Subscribe and you get a free (yes, FREE) email every time I publish a fic! Want me to write more? Shower me with praise because positive reinforcement motivates me to work!


	3. Recovery

The bed creaks as it sinks down with added weight.

 

“Are you going to at least come downstairs to breakfast?” The Sinner asks.

 

You don’t answer, shifting your body so you don’t face his direction, pulling the covers over your head to muffle his voice.

 

After a long, pregnant pause, the Sinner speaks again, his voice muted, as though trying to imitate someone who is much more polite. “May I see your wrist?”

 

You stick it out from under the covers. This is just to humor him, or at the very least, to figure out  _why_  your birthmark has decided to turn periwinkle seemingly overnight. It has to be some kind of magic thing, one that the Sinner might be able to explain. His good hand closes around your arm, gently pulling it so close that you can feel his breath.

 

“Do you know what this means?” He asks, almost accusingly.

 

“If I did, then I would have gotten rid of it.” You jerk your hand back under the blankets to look it over. The veins under your skin along the mark are a dark blue, looking almost like a lightning strike.

 

A sigh, one that you can’t connect any single emotion to. “You can’t get rid of it,” the Sinner says with a tone of finality that you don’t appreciate one bit.

 

You poke your head from under the covers, glaring at him. “Care to elaborate your statement?”

 

The Sinner’s pale skin has turned a pallid gray, his usually carefully crafted hair disheveled as though he hadn’t bothered to fix it since the fight last night. His eyes hold an echo of the fear he had shown to your glinting knife, though it has evolved from a primal instinct to something much more refined. He opens his mouth as though to speak, but for the first time since you have known him, no words come out. Instead, he turns away, suddenly unable to face you.

 

“It’s…” he hesitates, “magic. You have meddled in things you shouldn’t have.”

 

Slowly, you trace the outline of the violet-blue blob. “I was born with this, though. It just changed color.”

 

“Yes,” the Sinner responds, not really the answer you were looking for.  _Is he nervous,_  you wonder as he clears his throat, before standing up straight and flicking a bit of invisible dust off his coat. Promptly changing the subject, he says, “I think it would be prudent for you to come downstairs and at least try to eat something.”

 

“I think it would be prudent of  _you_  to get the hell out.”

 

He waits, just for a moment, as though you are going to flip a switch and suddenly agree. When you don’t, he sighs quietly, leaving just as you asked.

 

Before you want to eat, you want to sleep. You don’t think you’ve had a wink of rest while you were studying the world’s greatest mysteries, because who would? With the cures to the worst diseases and ways to solve some of the Earth’s more urgent issues burnt to ash, you feel like nothing even matters anymore. Slipping into unconsciousness is an easier feat than you thought it would be, your body shutting down the moment you close your eyes.

 

You’re terribly thirsty, you realize, sitting up while your eyes droop with lethargy, body hot from the sunlight streaming in through the windows. There is a fresh glass of water sitting on the side table beside your bed. Throat thoroughly parched, you reach over and drink the cup dry, tilting it all the way up to swallow the last precious drops. Sluggishly, you put the glass back, then roll over to continue sleeping.

 

When you wake again, the sun has already made its premature descent, the blackness almost suffocating. Looking back over to the side table, you feel around for where you placed your sewing needle. Finding it thanks to a faint flicker of moonlight, you bring it up to your face, staring at it for a few moments. Should you try?

 

You put the needle back.

 

The Sinner isn’t at the dining table, though the food has yet to appear, so he is probably pittering around in his room. You sit in the farthest seat from his usual place, balancing a fork on your index finger while you wait. The energy in the air changes, you can feel it just as sharply as you feel the wind outside, the scent of spices wafting around the table as a precursor of what is to come. Slowly, the platters begin to fill, rolls of bread stacking themselves in ornate circles, soup rising to the brim in the thin, beautifully painted china bowls, a huge, meaty thing appearing in the center as though zapped.

 

It has to do with the magic of the manor, sort of like how clothes just appear when you need them to. The necessities are provided to keep the cursed alive for its duration, and, to an extent, you. If only it could also give some information on the actual mechanics of the curse itself, you would be golden.

 

After you pile your plate with whatever is closest to grab, you sit back down, your stomach thundering with need. No sooner have you put a sticky bun between your mouth does a hand reach over and snag your plate out from under you.

 

Anger courses through your veins as you chew deliberately slow, glaring up at the Sinner as you swallow. “What.” You take a deep breath. “The  _fuck._  Is your fucking problem?”

 

“You are going to make yourself sick,” he snaps, as though you would be doing it on purpose to spite him, specifically. In one fluid motion, he reaches over to a group of ceramic ladles and fills a bowl about halfway with soup. “If you hadn’t eaten in four days, and you suddenly gorge yourself, it will shock your system.”

 

You glare at the soup he sets in the place of your plate, not even bothering to look at him. By then, the bite of the sugary honey bun has set in your stomach, and you can already feel an unsure clenching as it takes in stock what it has been given. One sharp pain later, you pick up the spoon, shoveling a bit of broth into your mouth. It is… delightful, you would chagrin to admit, but luckily, the Sinner doesn’t seem set on seeing your reaction. Instead, he gets his own plate, carefully picking at the array of food, and takes the seat nearest to you.

 

Annoyance flares up in your body like throwing gas on a fire, a furious burst of red flaring in your eyes. You grip the spoon tighter as though bracing yourself for another attack. Though, you relax a bit once you notice you notice the sloppy bandage of his hand. Not from guilt, oh no, from satisfaction. Primly sitting straight, you dip the spoon into the bowl once more and take a small sip.

 

Sleep comes more difficult once you return to your bed, tossing and turning, voices whispering around your head and they won’t  _stop._ You try to cover your ears with pillows, but the accusations continue, ugly, cruel, crawling under your skin and taking hold. Eventually, it becomes too much, the hooks digging too far, and so you sit up in bed, forcing your eyes open in the direction of the window. Trying to find something, anything else to focus on, your eyes fall down to the glimmering needle on the side table.

 

You should go downstairs to the kitchen to scrounge up something hot to drink to calm your nerves, maybe snack on a bit of pastry while you’re there. But it’s dark, and with the house creaking in godawful ways…

 

The needle is cold when you lift it up. It hovers over the pad of your index finger as you close your eyes, desperately trying to steel yourself, the fear of pain and failure strangling your breath like a weed choking a flower. This time, when you poke at the flesh, you wince, exhaling a soft hiss through your teeth as blood begins to ooze from the wound. In a hushed voice, you say the words, almost stumbling over the pronunciation, rubbing your thumb against the red wet.

 

Nothing happens. Before disappointment can settle in the pit of your stomach, the blood flickers, sputtering dimly to life.

 

Pinpricks of excitement dance up and down your spine as you stare, unblinking, at the light forming at your fingertip until the brightness begins to burn your eyes. It battles the darkness, illuminating the halls enough for you to feel marginally safer as you walk down to the kitchens, bare feet cold against the freezing tile.

 

There is always a kettle full of water on the stove, and the burner will ignite the moment anyone walks near it. Though, tonight it is already boiling as though in anticipation of your bout of insomnia. Little wooden boxes of herbs are stacked in a nearby cabinet, some of the leaves and flowers mixed for specific flavors, some left carefully separate for anyone who wants to create their own drink. You pick up a strainer and begin to poke around, quickly finding something acceptable for the late night.

 

“Get a cup for me as well, while you’re up.”

 

It’s as though someone jumped out from a corner and rammed a sledgehammer into your stomach. You nearly drop the box in your hands.  _“Fuck.”_

 

The Sinner sits, sprawled in one of the wooden booths that must have been made for people struck with the urge to snack or servants in need of a quick meal. One leg rests the seat, the other on the floor, his back pressed up against the wall so he can face you. His injured hand is on the table, bandage unwrapped and an array of herbs and small glass bottles scattered around an open book he must have been consulting.

 

And, you won’t try to lie, he looks even  _worse_  than this morning. The undertones of his skin have turned from the usual blue to something more green, even yellow in a few places, and he looks as if he is just barely keeping the bile in his stomach. Even in the dim light shimmering from your blood, he seems to have become gaunt in the few hours the two of you have been apart.

 

“You look like shit.” You turn around, extinguishing the light on your finger by blowing on it. There is already a set of candles surrounding the disorganized workplace the Sinner has set himself up, the flames bright enough to for you to see what you are doing.

 

The Sinner actually  _laughs,_  two quick exhales of breath that are too uniform to be anything else. “Silver poisoning from the knife wounds you so kindly gave me.”

 

You hum in response, picking up the screaming tea kettle by the handle and pouring the boiling water into the two ready teacups, careful to aim directly over the strainers. A splash of color wisps out, swirling around and mixing itself until the color of the water is uniform shade, steadily growing darker with every second the herbs soak. Carefully, you pick up the tray, walking as rigidly as you can to keep the tea from spilling.

 

As you set everything down on the table, you take a good look at the page he has open; instructions on how to make a poultice of some kind. Taking a dainty sip of piping hot tea, you reach over and slide the book closer to read better. Quickly, you glance over the pages once, then again, paying better attention to the details. You look up to the stuff he has around him and find that all the ingredients are here.

 

“Give me your hand,” you say, lips pursed, barely believing your own intentions.

 

“For what reason?” The Sinner glares at you with his exhausted eyes, “to give you a chance to poison me further?”

 

“Suit yourself.” You begin to measure and mix the ingredients anyway, placing everything in a stone grinder to make the paste. It takes some trial and error, but you develop a kind of finesse with the tool, twisting your wrist as you press the stick down. Within minutes, you had a decent looking thing happening, and it certainly had that nearly overpowering smell of something antibacterial. Or, you suppose, in this case, it would be anti-metal. Looking back up, you find him staring at you intently.

 

“Would this be some kind of apology?” He asks, cradling his hand dramatically as though it is about to fall off.

 

“An apology would insinuate that I’m sorry I almost killed you, which I am not. Give me your hand.”

 

The Sinner hesitates, something running through his eyes as he thinks, but he places his hand in yours, just barely wincing as you pull it closer. And, there’s no sugarcoating anything, it looks  _terrible._ Bad enough for you to look away quickly, collecting yourself in the second you do so. Twin cuts from where the blade cut into his skin slice through his upper knuckles and palm, swollen and oozing a blue-tinted puss. The blisters, though. The blisters overtake any and every bit of skin that isn’t actively bleeding like a cancerous growth, misshapen blobs sprouting and pulsating from the base of his palm to his fingertips.

 

Glancing over to reread the page only briefly, you drip a bit of oil onto the inflamed skin. After rolling up your sleeves, you begin to massage the oil across the wounds, careful to be as gentle as possible. It probably doesn’t matter how hard you try to avoid hurting him since he lets out an audible hiss as soon as the droplet of oil touches his skin, signifying its sensitivity. As soon as his hand is covered in a shiny glaze, you begin to pile the paste over the worst of the wounds, slowly spreading it until everything is covered.

 

You lay out a strip of thin white fabric, placing his hand down over it. Taking the second bit of cloth, you fold it into a square and put it in the center of his palm, before wrapping the bandage as the instructions dictate. While you fiddle with the fabric, the Sinner’s empty eyes stare intently at a spot on your arm, distracting himself from the pain.

 

“Done.” You pull away, wiping your hands on a ready towel.

 

He snaps himself out of whatever trance he was in, holding up his bandaged hand. “This will do.”

 

‘Rolling’ your eyes doesn’t quite describe what you do to signify your annoyance. You  _transport_  your irises and pupils to  _another dimension,_  then take a large sip of tea. “I’m  _so_  happy it’s to your liking, your majesty. Now take your shirt off.”

 

He gives you a tense smile. “I had no idea you felt that way about me, you should have said something sooner.”

 

Without another word, you reach over the table and pull the string of his collar free. The center opens slightly, though enough for you to see a sample of the slash damage. You look at him again, arching your eyebrows. “Shirt. Off.”

 

The Sinner obliges, shifting his body to pull at the fabric, only able to use a single limb. He has to start by tugging at the sleeve over the injured hand, then at the hem, slipping his head back inside the shirt briefly before shaking the remaining sleeve off his arm. The cut across his chest isn’t nearly bad as the infection of his hand, most likely because the slash was quick and not as deep, but a path of small blisters trails alongside the scab.

 

The little bottle of oil is nearly gone by the time you finish fully covering the wounded area. It feels strange touching the Sinner there, maybe because you can’t find a comfortable position that also allows you to fully see the extent of the damage. When you stand, you’re rubbing the oil at an awkward angle, but when you kneel between his legs, well, that has its own implications. In the end, you have to alternate between crouching heights, popping up to overview the progress and moving down to work better.

 

And… Well, you shouldn’t be admiring the muscles of his abdomen as you run your hands over the creases of his skin, in the valley of his pecs, or just over his collarbone… Or noticing how the slight bulge of his biceps twitches when you accidentally massage a bit of sensitive skin wrong. To distract yourself from how close he is, how you can feel his breath on the shell of your ear, you try to focus on the way the oil feels on your fingers. How easily your hands slide across his skin, and the warmth of his body radiating onto you… The slickness suddenly reminds you of something else and, shit, wrong thing to focus on, abort thought,  _abort thought._

 

You manage to finish application, hands shaking from a _sugar crash,_ you are just  _hungry,_  get your mind outta the gutter. Next  ~~comes~~  the paste again, making sure the actual knife wound gets more of the poultice than the blisters. You barely notice when the Sinner leans slightly forward, eyes closed, until you stand up to find some perfectly sized fabric strips.

 

“Arms up,” you order, finding something acceptable. No matter how much experience you have had with first aid, no modern training includes wrapping someone up like a goddamn mummy. It takes some trial and error because even with the instructions, figuring out how to wrap bandages around his chest and  _making them stay_  is not so simple as the writing would have you believe.

 

“For being so superior,” you say, pushing a crumpled bit of fabric to his chest with a quiet huff, “I would think that the Fae would figure out how to make bandage tape.”

 

“Why would we want that?” The Sinner asks, clearly baffled.

 

“I don’t know, why would you want something that could make my life so much easier?” You have to wrap the bandage around his back, and the best way to pass the fabric from one hand to the other without loosening anything vital is basically hugging him. The fresh, sharp smell of the herbs drowns your lungs in its thickness, and as you pull the fabric strip taut, on your knees, you think,  _why am I doing this?_

 

The Sinner doesn’t respond, his muscles straining as you wrap your arms around his chest again. At first, the bandaging is sloppy, so you have to undo a good amount of the work just to get it right. Around the halfway point, you back up a bit, keeping your hold on the strip, to check how the wrapping is progressing. The Sinner is holding the back of the chair with a death grip, his knuckles so white they almost give off their own light in the dark. His jaw is set, teeth gritted so hard they might break at any moment, his eyes facing forward so intently, it looks as though he is trying to set the wall on fire.

 

“If I’m hurting you,” you say, resuming your work, “you have to say something, or I don’t know to stop.”

 

A small grunt is the only sign that he’s heard.

 

It takes a few more minutes of struggling to finally finish, the bandages looking like they will hold, at least, for the near future. You stand back up, walking towards an old fashioned pump faucet to rinse your hands in the freezing water. Without turning around, you say, “it will need to be changed soon enough.”

 

After a beat, long enough that you thought for a moment that he hadn’t heard, the Sinner says, “I am fully capable of handling it.”

 

“Okay.” You dry your hands on the towel.

 

“Unless you are offering to aid me. Then I would allow it.”

 

“Oh, you would  _allow it,”_  you scoff, sitting back down in front of your still-steaming teacup. Picking it up as daintily as you can manage, you swirl the contents once before taking what you imagine is a ladylike sip. “I am so honored that you allow me to assist with the healing of your mortal wounds.”

 

“I am glad you finally see it that-”

 

“Changed my mind. You can perish.” You stand quickly, legs banging roughly against the table as you leave.

 

Pausing just outside the kitchen to rub your thighs, you  _fume._  That fucking bastard can’t say the word  _please_  to, quite literally, save his life. You radiate anger all the way back to your room, too emotional to try and bother with the light spell. If any ghoulies or ghosts try jumping out at you, anyways, you are probably pissed enough to take them on and win.

 

The covers of your bed welcome you back into their nonjudgemental embrace. Ah, your bed. So quiet. So comfortable. No mouth to open up and ruin the moment for you, it just sits and waits until you need to cuddle up and rest. It accepts you for who you are, doesn’t bitch at any move you make. You lay your head on the pillow and try to relax, glad for the voices to be gone. Instead of simply  _ceasing_ activity, though, your brain refuses to shut off, effectively keeping you awake.

 

Because… if the light spell works, that means that the other spells should work, and if the other spells can work… that means you can unlock literally every single door in this estate. And if you can unlock every door in the estate…. You roll out of bed, this time putting on your shoes at the behest of your numb toes. Creaking the door open slightly, you wait until you hear the angry slam from the Sinner’s bedroom before quietly stepping out into the hall.

 

Where to start, where to start?

 

In the end, you decide to pick the lock in the room directly in front of yours, because hey, have to begin somewhere. You don’t exactly know the layout of everything, either, and so you are going to have to build an internal map from the ground up. Frustration pinches the back of your neck as you try, desperately, to recall the exact words you previously spoke while breaking into the Sinner’s room. You tumble over the syllables, wishing you somehow understood the language so you could remember what they mean.

 

After a few minutes of furiously whispering to the lock, it clicks, opening the large wooden door into what looks like an office. A desk sits near the opposite wall, long, with a comfortable velvet chair outlined against the moonlight. Wasting no time, you quietly shut the door, stepping through the threshold, looking around at the bookshelves that line the walls. It’s almost as if this is a secondary library, though much smaller than the one downstairs, it still holds a vast array of knowledge.

 

Curiously, you hold up the light you ignited, staring at the spine’s titles. Hm, looks like it’s all mostly genealogy lists… you open one of the books to find a boatload of names, titles, records of accomplishments, and everything else you would need to know about a single person’s ancestry. You suppose the fae can’t be bothered with the perversion of the mortal’s Ancestry dot com, so they must meticulously copy dozens of each book to accompany whoever wants them. Lovely.

 

You put the book back, rolling your eyes. Heading over to the desk in the hopes of finding something a little less dry, you begin to pull at the drawers and poke through the cabinets. A pile of blank papers, a nice set of quills, enough ink to draft a new religious text, and… a small leatherbound book. Curious, you open it, to find a name and an unfamiliar couple of numbers that must be some kind of date on the inside of the cover.

 

 _Property of,_  a name too blurry for your eyes to make out,  _Secretary of the Queen._


	4. Knowledge

That is  _the shit._

 

You have been trying to find out what has happened, what spiraled out of control to cause the curse, and of course, all the history books of the main library don’t list something that caused all the fae who could document it to disappear. What you have needed all along was something written adjacent to the events happening, a  _personal_  account, if you will. And a journal to some secretary of the royal family probably has some tea that a simple kitchen servant wouldn’t know.

 

Satisfied with your discovery, you return to your room, light still flickering on your index finger. You lock the door by reversing the previous spell, something your book taught, and climb back into bed. The entries are mostly dry, simple statements of each day’s schedule,  _Queen had luncheon, I oversaw the arrangements, the princess’s birthday is coming up, the Queen is frantically putting everything together,_  and so on.

 

There aren’t too many details of the mundane activities you would need to piece together a better understanding of castle life, but it’s better than nothing. The reading is dry, a basic scrawl of monotone activities the Queen’s Secretary accomplished, no excitement, no emotion. Before you realize it, your eyes droop down, your blinks becoming longer and more drawn out with every passing moment.  _The Queen disliked the pink flowers, so we decided on blue,_  yes, riveting, you are on the edge of your seat…

 

You fall asleep. It’s the kind of rest where you are fully aware that you aren’t conscious, but at the same time,  _are you?_  The muscles and tendons of your hand begin tingling with a numb sensation, then slowly, as though dipping your hand in acid, hot, sharp pain runs up your arm. Oh, god, it hurts,  _burns,_  you think you might die-

 

You snap awake, sitting straight up on the bed. Light streams in from the windows, dust catching like fireflies in the sun’s path. Nervously, you hold your hand up, expecting to see it mangled and destroyed, as though something had come in your room during the night and torn at your flesh with teeth and claws. There is nothing, your hand in perfect working order, you can even bend your fingers without any kind of reaction. Okay, weird. But everything else in this place is strange, so you chalk it up to another one of those convoluted nightmares you have been having and move on with your day.

 

The journal you hide underneath the mountain of pillows on your bed, no need for the Sinner to see it and become suspicious.

 

Breakfast is remarkably quiet, as the Sinner takes his usual place at the table, far away from you. Today, he seems well, at least in comparison to last night. The color has returned to his skin, though the under of his eyes are still rimmed with gray. His hair is back to being flawlessly glossy, a long, straight waterfall of white brushed without a single strand out of place. As he sits, the sleeves of his freshly pressed shirt rolled up slightly, he is careful to not spare a single glance in your direction. Though you are appreciative of the stony silence coming off of him, you need to ask him for something.

 

“I need paper and ink to take notes.” Of course, you can find it on your own, but the point is that he needs to think you are still marginally dependant on him.

 

“Do I look like I am your fetching mule?” The Sinner asks in response, finally meeting your gaze with a haughty glare.

 

You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh. “I am not asking you to bend over backward and crabwalk shirtless while balancing paper and ink on your finely chiseled abs. What I am asking, actually, is for you to point me in their direction for me to get them myself.”

 

He stares at you, brow furrowed at your imagery while carefully deliberating a reply. “I have an office.”

 

“Great.” When he doesn’t elaborate (honestly, do you have to spoon feed everything to him?), you add, “where is it?”

 

“Wait here.” The Sinner stands abruptly, walking right out of the dining hall.

 

You do, picking at the food on your plate, careful to eat things you know will go easy on your stomach, and in a much smaller portion that you feel like you could go for. The Sinner was right about the shock thing, and so you’re careful about what exactly you put in your body until you recover. About when you’re finishing the last bit of crumbs, the Sinner walks back in, holding a wooden box.

 

“Here,” the Sinner says, as though just he trudged through lava to retrieve it for you. As soon as you accept it, he walks back to his place at the table and resumes eating in a huff.

 

You open the top of the box by sliding the cover to the side, finding a little leatherbound book, much like the journal you discovered in the tiny library, except this one had runes etched in the cover. A quill sits to the side, a little jar of nubs tied with a golden ribbon, and three bottles of different shaded inks in various locations. Though you don’t exactly have a good knowledge of the Fae stock market or value of their currency, everything, the inks, the journal, the daintily painted box they came in, all look expensive. And ridiculously fancy. You think back to the simple black inks you had found thus far, how the bottles they come in are plain and smooth, not carefully sculpted to look like teardrops, glass so thin you fear you might break it.

 

“This is… very nice,” you allow, just barely, since you don’t need the Sinner puffing up his feathers for the rest of the day.

 

“It was…” He hesitates, as if he can’t believe he even opened his mouth in the first place, “it was supposed to be a gift. For my wife.”

 

You immediately start putting everything back in place. “I didn’t know you were married.”

 

“We weren’t married yet, but I bought it to be a post-wedding present… in any case, obviously, it didn’t work out. Keep it.”

 

“If this is supposed to be a present for your wife, I’m assuming someone special-”

 

“Keep it.” The Sinner’s voice is hard, adamant.

 

Unsure of what to say to that, you slide the box closer, fingers on the cover as you trace the thinly painted ivy vines. “Alright,” you finally find your voice. “Thanks.”

 

Pushing your plate out of the way, you open one of the ink bottles, expecting the noxious smell of cheap fountain pens you had been mainly exposed to in your life. Unexpectedly, the deep, sea blue liquid is odorless, you even bring it up to your nose to make sure. Next, you gently pull the bow off the bottle of nubs, folding the ribbon and setting it gently to the side.

 

_Note one; the Sinner was supposed to be married at some point. Official engagement? Secret lustful meetings? Don’t know._

 

“What are you writing about?” The Sinner asks, straightening his back to get a better view.

 

“You.”

 

_Note two; the Sinner loves his capes and cloaks. Always wearing a new one, super annoying to watch him swish around like a fashionista before his morning coffee; ie., like a bitch._

 

“At least the journal will be somewhat interesting, then.”

 

You wrinkle your nose at the remark, but don’t bother making a biting response. With the green ink, a warm, rich tone that reminds you of summer forests and sunshine, you draw a line that spans between two pages. At the center you make a little notch, scrawling in your neatest handwriting,  _c-day._  Like d-day, but with curses. In any case, now is time to find more journals in the hopes of filling the space with a plausible timeline.

 

Back upstairs, you open the secretary’s journal, flipping through the writing until it suddenly cuts off. You begin to read the entries, starting from the last one, moving backward in time, mouth pressed in a thin line.  _Three weeks BCD (before curse day). Royal whoever arrived. Queen, King, Princess, Baby Prince, and a whole entourage of servants to prove they’re better than everyone else._  The secretary travels with them, as they are the queen’s personal servant. For the first time, you find a shred of emotion within this journal, a single sentence mentioning how much they will miss their mate during the journey. The secretary doesn’t give you a good idea of what these people are actually  _like,_  all you get are a listing of orders, but after a long passage about the queen’s particularities, you think you can conclude that someone is a little high strung.

 

Maybe a simple kitchen servant’s diary would be better after all.

 

So if the royal family had just arrived at this estate, the same estate that belongs to the Sinner, then he is not a prince or king. Probably. You are, of course, aware that Fae politics might be entirely different from your human ones, but you think that it’s pretty clear that the Sinner is a lower rank since the Secretary commented on how bad his groveling to the king was, most likely pissing the old monarch off.

 

_Note three; seems as though the Sinner’s pride is not a recent development._

 

Now is time to look for more journals. You have a vague idea of where the servants’ quarters are, downstairs on the other side of the manner, but you have never been there. Might as well go there to dig around. Carefully placing the lids back on your ink bottles and rinsing your quill nubs, you make sure to put everything back in its exact place before you leave.

 

Every time you find yourself wandering, the thundering silence of the halls is almost stifling. You feel like an archeologist wandering through ruins, a single, small person walking where there should be hundreds. The ceiling over your head is arched and tall, your footsteps echoing through the rafters, reminding you with every sound of how insignificant you are in comparison to the infinity of this palace.

 

The servants’ quarters are much smaller than the mountainous splendor of the great hall and accompanying rooms, most likely because they were trying to make as much use of the space rather than flaunt how wasteful they are with the vaulting ceilings and marble statues. Instead of fanciful frescoes lining the plaster of the walls, the walls are blue, a beautiful shade of blue, you would say, but a single tone of the color spanning far and wide down the hallway. None of the doors are locked, you are surprised for the first door handle to give with little effort, and you are partially relieved to not have to bleed yourself dry with the magic.

 

Every room is set up the same; twin bed, desk, lantern, chest, closet. You quickly come up with a system to go through the things as swiftly and efficiently as possible, working through the guilt of tearing apart a stranger’s room. Victoriously, you end up with three diaries, two sketch journals, and a whole bunch of letters that have been saved due to personal attachment. All good things to help build the timeline, you can’t believe you had only thought to try this now.

 

Back in the safety of your room and the warmth of the quilts, you begin to compile your findings, trying your best to categorize everything by date. The diaries you read with no issues, you try to convince yourself that they are merely stories that you found while scrounging in the library. The letters, though. It’s a lot harder to read something so much more personal, addressed to a specific person, from a specific person.

 

You find a letter that appears to be from this person’s… mate, you guess. There are mentions of spouses, too, so maybe the Fae use the terms interchangeably? While some of the entries turn your face red and make your stomach hot, you glaze over those quickly, since plenty of other paragraphs help you understand this world’s rules a bit better. There is a sentence that especially catches your eye:  _You know as well as I that we cannot lie, in speech, in thought, in writing, and so you must know that when I say “I love you,” I mean it with every fiber in my body._

 

Interesting. You’re going to have to try and catch the Sinner in a lie sometime to prove this. You have to put everything away and go off to scrounge something up for your lunch, but just as quick, you return. This is something you are going to do, even if it’s going to be the death of you. Dates blur and merge as you run them around and around in your brain, frustration curling around your head like a crown as you try to make sense of the dozens of different accounts. None of this would be necessary if the Sinner would just  _tell you_ what happened, instead of snapping down the moment you mention it and absconding to some brood-worthy second location.

 

So far, the gossip is that the king asked the duke to marry his daughter, and the duke refused. Or, another letter contradicts, the duke asked to marry the princess himself, and the king was  _pissed_ at even the suggestion. Also, the princess was apparently fourteen, so  _big yikes_  at either scenario… unless the Sinner was the same age when it happened, which might be possible since you don’t know how long the curse has been going on. Anyway, what you just found is a decent motivation, maybe things were even worse than they publicly appeared.

 

 _Note four; marriage feud. Princess possible wife-to-be?_  Not to disregard the  _love in their heart_  inscription upstairs in the tower. So… he refused the princess’ hand and daddio got pissio?

 

You head back down to dinner, granted, with more questions than you had previously, but at least you  _know_  what to ask rather than to flounder around and hope something sticks. Because unless you ask outright, the Sinner usually doesn’t bother with semantics. He is already lounging, foot up against the chair next to him, book open on the table in front of him. The food has yet to appear, though it looks as though the Sinner has helped himself to the tea cabinet.

 

This is the first time you purposefully sit right next to his usual spot, scooting your chair to the side to get closer. With a flick of his wrist, the Sinner closes the book, looking up, arching one eyebrow and frowning with the other, looking over you. Probably… no,  _definitely_ searching for weapons. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

 

“What are you?” You ask. “As in, I know you’re Fae, but- um, you own this house, so what kind of rank are you?”

 

The Sinner can tell that you are up to something, you see  _danger, danger, danger,_  flashing behind his eyes, but he still answers. “I am the Duke of Nantosuelta.”

 

Gotcha. “And Nantosuelta is… here, this estate?”

 

“Yes.” The Sinner opens his book again, dismissing you without words.

 

Reaching over, you close the book, pissed. “Explain to me the difference between mates and spouses.”

 

He looks suddenly like he would rather swallow his own tongue. “That is- that is a  _sacred_  knowledge, how did you find out-”

 

“Book.” A valid excuse, you think smugly. He doesn’t need to know your book hadn’t the chance to tell you everything before he burnt it.

 

“I am not required to explain to you the ways of my people.” The Sinner stands, pulling the thick volume with him, wincing as he bends his hand the wrong way.

 

“One more thing before you leave.” You point to the marble floor. “What color is that?”

 

He squints at you suspiciously. “Black.”

 

“Say that it’s white.”

 

“It is not.” The Sinner looks aghast at the suggestion.

 

You arch your eyebrows. “Humor me. Say that the floor is white.”

 

He stares at you, and you can see that he knows the trap you have set. Anger flashes over his features, eyes darkening, nostrils flaring. The Sinner doesn’t like to be bested. “I will not,” he snarls through gritted teeth, “humor the whims of a mortal girl.”

 

As he storms off, the food crawls up from nothing, populating the table with its usual feast. Watching the shine of his boots disappear down the hallway, you reach over and pluck a bit of fruit off a platter.

 

_Note five; the Sinner cannot lie._

 

It feels like a victory in itself just to write those words, the scratch of your quill against paper like music to your ears. Next thing on the agenda? You should be figuring out how exactly the situation with the king went down, and you are  _trying,_  but your eyes fall on something especially peculiar while reading a letter to one of the kitchen maids. _When our fingers brushed, and our marks ignited, I had not yet experienced ecstasy the way our gods intended us to feel. It was as though my soul had been finally opened to love._

 

Wait. Stop. Get the fuck out and hold the goddamn door.  _What?_  You read that section again, certain that you missed something important, but no, marks, ignite, soul… mate. You hold up the mark on your wrist, a blue silhouette from where the Sinner first touched you with his bare hand.

 

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

 

You throw yourself out of bed, the feeling the rough impact in your knees as you stumble across the room.  ~~No~~  you have to know more. You  ~~no~~  have to figure out what exactly  ~~no~~  this means… you aren’t Fae! You are a  _human,_   ~~no no no~~  with human parents! With a human  ~~no~~  life, with human friends… and a human car, and a human education  ~~no.~~  Bile lurches in your stomach as you skid around a corner, panic and fear spiking so high in your blood you might just begin to vibrate.

 

The library is how you remember, your book fort exactly how you left it not so long ago, even though the time feels like months and years. There is a catalog, not very spectacular, you suppose that the Fae don’t want the disgusting ease of things like Ao3 tags to make their lives easier, but it is better than nothing. The pages create a little breeze as you quickly flip through them, stopping at the M’s to find…  _mate._  There’s nothing along the lines of  _the science behind soulmates,_  but there is something called  _How Bran the Brave Found His Mate._

 

Upper level. You move like in a fevered dream, your arm bumping roughly against the banister as you run up the circular stairs, stumbling into what looks like a children section. That’s probably a good thing, the book will spell out the basics of the subject, which is precisely what you need. You push your way between shelves, almost as if you are fighting against the very air to get where you need to go. There, in the back, a small hardback book, the spine declaring its story.

 

You snatch it, collapsing onto the floor in an angry heap.

 

 _This is the story of how Bran the Brave met his mate, Áed the Mystical._  Great story. Super forward so far.  _One day Bran the Brave was walking through the forest after a long day fighting for his prince when he accidentally tripped on a big rock. He fell and scraped his knee._

 

_“Ow!” Shouted Bran the Brave. “That hurt!”_

 

_“Oh no!” Came a voice from the brush, and out popped a sylph. “Allow me to assist you!”_

 

_“Of course!” Said Bran the Brave. “That would be very nice.”_

 

A page-turner is what this is.

 

_The moment the sylph leaned over and touched Bran the Brave, his knee changed color! Now the sylph’s fingers and Bran the Brave’s knee are bright red. That means that they are mates, their spirits made by the Earth Mother for each other. Some mates are brand new spirits! And some mates have been reborn over and over again for generations!_

 

_“This is wonderful!” Bran the Brave cried. “I am so happy to have met you!”_

 

You slam the book shut, not wanting to read the rest. “No.”

 

No.

 

No no no

 

No no you aren’t, you  _are not_

 

Dizziness threatens the inside of your head as you stand too quickly, the edges of your vision tinting black. You want to vomit, here, now, all over the children’s education section. The lungs in your chest squeeze painfully, threatening to give up and let you die, choking for air, thrashing on the floor. There is no such thing, you are not the Sinner’s mate, you are not Fae, this is a mistake, you should have  _just died in the fire that took your car._  The muscles in your legs spasm, you have to catch yourself on the shelves, your arms landing hard enough to bruise against the wood.

 

The book stays firm in your grip as you wobble back down the stairs, breath heavy, eyes burning, mouth quivering as you deny, deny,  _deny_  the very idea of soulmates. The thing on your wrist, just a birthmark. Magic changed its color, the Sinner said,  ~~the magic of being soulmates,~~  your brain hisses. No, it has to do with the book. The book somehow changed the color of the mark while you were practicing magic with it.  ~~Then why,~~  your inner thoughts sneer,  ~~did it only happen exactly when he touched you?~~  Because it was a coincidence! Those happen all the time!

 

You don’t walk, you  _stagger,_  legs barely holding your weight as you bump along the wall, a high pitched wheeze rasping in your throat. You think you are blind, the evening spinning into night, the shapes becoming dark and blurry. You taste salt and copper, chewing the bottom of your lips to keep from crying, all efforts failing as you miserably sob. Upstairs, get upstairs. There is no plan, nothing you have comprised, no brilliant trap to spring. Your body moves on its own, fueled by the budding rage that builds inside your chest. The book’s cover bites into your hands as you grip tighter, wishing the edge would cut into your hand and drain you of some misery.

 

The Sinner’s room is shut, but you know he is in there. It is his heartbeat that pulses through the door that warns you of his location, a steady, familiar thrumming that has echoed inside your head alongside the nightmares. You don’t give him a moment to prepare, biting a bit of skin open, smearing the blood across the lock and snarling the words of the spell more proficiently than you ever had before. With a swift kick, the door flies open, your eyes immediately falling on where he stands, just to the side, near the wall. You hold up the book only for the second it takes his eyes to register the title, then throwing it as hard as any seasoned baseball pitcher, striking him directly in the chest.

 

“What.” You manage to find your voice, just for a moment, holding up your arm and jabbing your finger the birthmark hard enough to hurt, the crescent of your fingernail nearly slicing into the blue-tinted flesh.  _”The FUCK IS THIS.”_

 

The Sinner tries taking a deep breath, “maybe you should sit-”

 

 _“YOU_  SIT.”

 

He does, kind of, leaning generously on his bed. You glare at him, your skin  _boiling,_  your tears  _burning_  down your face, adrenaline mixing with your blood as it prepares to fight. All the muscles in your body convulse, disgusted, terrorized, bracing for violence. You want to  _kill him, kill him, kill him,_  your hands closing into fists and opening back out as you debate the benefits of scratching versus punching.

 

“Tell me,” your voice flitting, high pitched from an upcoming sob. “Tell me that you hate me. Tell me that you want me gone, that you need me to  _leave.”_

 

The Sinner looks away, eyes closed tight with pain, as though you brought in a knife and stabbed him once again. Your heart is already seizing when he turns back to you, eyes full of regret, head shaking slowly.

 

“I… cannot.”

 

You drop to your knees, one hand clawing for perch on the floor, other covering your mouth.

 

And you  _scream._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who is having a mental breakdown! *points to screen* You are!


	5. Power

Little hiccups bubble up in your throat as your sit, numbly, hands braced around an almost intolerably hot teacup. Across from you, the Sinner pours his own serving, placing one small square of sugar into the near boiling water. After setting the white and blue teapot down, he slides the tray of additives towards you. A long pause of nothing. The Sinner is very careful to not even glance up in your direction, his one good hand laying flat on the wood, a single strand of hair falling in front of his face.

 

“I… understand that this is not ideal for you.”

 

You glare at him with your itching, bleary eyes.

 

“It is,” the Sinner pauses, straining to find the right word, “difficult for me to understand, myself. I don’t know why we, you, a human, and I, a Fae, are somehow mated and one. But,” he holds up his bandaged hand, the one that bears the mark, “we are.”

 

Another sob threatens to overtake your body.

 

“Please,” panic sets in his eyes as he sees your chest shudder, “this is something holy. Precious. The gods do not deem every Fae a soulmate, but they have seen fit to give me you, and I promise-”

 

You begin crying again, your body somehow dredging up the liquid for tears, leeching out every last reserve in an attempt to erase the pain.

 

“I’m a duke, I have power,” he tries, struggling for something,  _anything_  to calm you down. “You will always be taken care of, you would want for nothing. I can arrange to give you an apartment, you can use it however you please-”

 

“How. How would I use it?” You can’t gulp air fast enough. Oh god, your chest. It is in agony.

 

The Sinner looks at you, blank. “I- I don’t know, that would be for you to decide.”

 

“Oh yeah? Tell me what I enjoy doing. I’ll do it in there.”

 

He can tell that you’re baiting him, but even so, you both know he has to take it in order to move along. “I don’t know.”

 

“You don’t know!” You throw your hands up in the air. “You don’t even know me! Who are you to say that I am somehow now yours? Hm? Who am I? What’s my favorite band? What school did I go to? You don’t even know my  _favorite color.”_

 

“That is all… correct,” the Sinner manages to say before you continue mentioning all the different ways he doesn’t know you, “but you are here with me now, and so I could begin the process of getting to know you.”

 

Words cannot begin to describe how disgustingly  _incredulous_  you are. Just… you want to reach over and ram his perfectly sculpted nose into the unforgiving table. “Do you… not realize that I have been here for  _months?”_

 

“Yes,” the Sinner stammers, “but-”

 

“BUT YOU DIDN’T REALIZE WE WERE MATES, SO YOU DIDN’T CARE.” You swipe the tray of sugar bowls, creamer boats, and little honey jars off the edge, a harsh shattering punctuating your words like arrow strikes. “I wasn’t even a person to you, was I, until we touched. Just a  _pawn_  to you, a  _slave_  you could bully.”

 

The Sinner says nothing, and that is answer enough. You slam your hands on the table as you stand, shaking so badly you think you might throw up. Before you can leave, he whispers, “wait. Please.”

 

 _Please,_  he has never said to you, so you sit back down and stare at him, soul as hard as stone.

 

“Six months out of the year. However you want to divide it. You can leave, do what you wish, be with,” he almost chokes at the words, “who you wish. But you return to me for half the year.”

 

“No.”

 

“Five months.”

 

_”No.”_

 

“Three.” Desperation clings to his words, and bitterness, too. The Sinner has never begged for anything once in his life, but the feverish need in his eyes tells you he would. Now, on his knees, if you told him to.

 

You lean forward, jaw set so hard your teeth hurt. “Our original deal still stands.”

 

The Sinner shakes his head once, his breath quickening. “You can’t-”

 

“I will.” You stand, taking a step away from the table. “Watch me do it. And when I break the curse, I will walk away from this hell you crafted and never return.” You leave him there, arms resting on the table, face not moving to watch you go. For the second time since you have met him, there is fear in the Sinner’s eyes.

 

The clock chimes an hour past midnight, and you should be asleep, but you  _can’t stop thinking._  A freight train roars inside your head, the last conversation with the Sinner being played out repeatedly so you can dissect every syllable, every twitch of his body, every tone of his voice. What kind of game is this person playing at? What does he want, how can you exploit it? Ground zero. You stop pacing in your room, an idea whispering in the back of your brain. The towers, the inscription.

 

Love.

 

The key to breaking the curse is love, but not from some stranger. You have always had your suspicions, of course, though only now….

 

You pace until the sky is pink and purple with the rising sun. The time for breakfast passes as you allow yourself the privilege of a bath, wishing your troubles would wisp away with the steaming water. Even though it is of no use, you try scrubbing at the blue of your mark with soap until the skin is raw, red tinting through to make a swollen purple. Frustration stings the corners of your eyes as you try your hardest not to cry another time, carefully controlling your breathing as you rinse your arm beneath the water.  _You will figure this out,_  you try to reason with yourself.  _You have gotten this far, you just need to go a bit more._

 

Only after lunch do you risk going downstairs, not wanting to face the Sinner for a number of reasons. You scrounge up a snack in the kitchen, water heating in the kettle as you pile a load of pastries onto a tiny china plate. Stressfully, you tear into the food, trying to settle your nerves at the thought of… well, manipulating someone who would not appreciate being manipulated. If the key it love, then you’re going to have to  _make_  him love you. And no, you don’t like the idea, at all, but you’re running fresh out of options.

 

The question of the hour; how to begin?

 

Number one, you have already decided it is best to avoid him until further notice. The other steps need to be formulated, and in a way where he would not suspect anything. After the last conversation, though, that might be a little difficult. Maybe you can make him think you’re changing your mind without making the deal?

 

You go hiding out in the library, hoping to find a better explanation of soulmates, but it is similar to strolling into a public library looking for a reason why water is wet. There is the basic explanation everyone knows,  _it just is,_  or you can try to swallow a dense scientific journal with words and terms you don’t have the eight master’s degrees to know. Dictionary? Nowhere to be found, missing from its place on the shelves. It’s not in your book fort, you tear the thing down looking for it. All you have to go on is the simple exposition from  _Bran the Brave,_  and you feel it just isn’t cutting it. Worse news, it’s still in the Sinner’s room, so you can’t even finish reading it in the first place.

 

A growl of frustration escapes your lungs. You sit on the cold floor, back against the shelf, closing your eyes and thinking, just to avoid the feeling of helplessness that has clawed its way into your chest. Exhaustion tugs at your eyes, has gravity somehow become stronger? The wood of the shelves doesn’t feel too atrocious against your spine, and you find yourself slipping into what can only be described as a depression nap.

 

When you wake, the library is no longer lit with the natural light of the sun. Instead, a single chandelier in the main reading area flickers a warm yellow glow, just bright enough for you safely navigate back out into the hall. You don’t exactly know where you are going until you stand outside the Sinner’s door, fist raised to knock.  _Really,_  you think to yourself,  _knocking now?_  Angrily, you pull the pin from the hem of your clothes, pricking your finger like its nothing, whispering the spell at the keyhole.

 

The door swings open and you step through, the Sinner sitting up in bed as though he was shot.

 

“There’s no fire in my room.” You say the first thing that comes to mind.

 

He stares at you.

 

“I’m cold,” you elaborate.

 

“Would you… like to switch rooms to one with a fireplace?” The Sinner looks confused.

 

“No, there’s on in here already.” You invite yourself into his bed, sticking close to the edge. The Sinner’s breathing quickens as you make yourself at home, pulling the thick blanket up past your shoulders and laying your head against the pillow. The air around him is thick with energy, though you feel nothing negative radiating towards you. Instead… shock, so vivid you can taste it. Like his emotions are bleeding through his soul and out around him.

 

Throughout the night, you scarcely get a wink of sleep, barely fading back into a lucid kind of rest that you quickly snap out of if the Sinner so much as twitches. He is just as awake and aware as you, stuck in his own nerve-wracking loop of relaxing just enough for sleep to glaze over his mind, only to seize back up if you shift. It is like a symbiotic relationship if those include setting fire to everything and an ungodly amount of internal screaming. Minutes of agony seep slowly into hours, the gentle twinkling of twilight like a relief you had not known before.

 

The Sinner sits up, looking down at you as though he thought the night had been a fever dream. “I-” he looks down at the blanket dividing your bodies, “I am going to wash up and get dressed.”

 

“Okay,” you respond, hoping to sound uninterested.

 

He clears his throat, intending to say something more, but quickly thinks better of it. Slowly, he removes the blanket from his waist, then slips out of bed to walk towards the bathroom. You keep your gaze carefully locked on the wall, refusing to look back until you hear the click of the door, but strangely, not the louder clunk of the lock.

 

Quickly, silently, you slip out of bed as soon as you hear the water running, creeping up to what you hope is the entrance to his office, pricking your finger as you whisper the spell almost too low to hear. The blood does your will, and you open the door just enough for your body to slip through. The inside is… an office, yes. A writing desk with a comfortable looking chair, two bookshelves on either side of the room make it much more modest than the last one you ransacked. The wallpaper is a mess of shreds, no, you discover upon further inspection, tally marks. Hundreds, maybe thousands, some scratching just barely into the paint, others carving past the paper and right into the plaster, chips and dust lining where the wall and floor meet. Like a prisoner keeping track of every single day they are locked away, each one telling a story of pain and loneliness.

 

You move with an agile kind of haste, walking over to the working end of the desk, a stack of small but wide drawers on one side. All of them locked, you realize after trying to pull several of them loose. It’s a matter of pricking your middle finger and repeating the spell (geeze, no better security?) for them to open. Letters, all of them, and you feel like you’ve hit the jackpot of all jackpots. The first one is all from the same person, a butler who writes about salaries, keeping track of the payouts of the serving class. The second drawer looks like it’s from a friend, or at least someone marginally chummy, talking about their last visit and how they look forward to the next masquerade ball. The third one has a single envelope, but it’s nearly tearing at the seams with the contents inside.

 

You pick it up, tracing your finger over the bright red seal, already broken, the imprint of a carefully calligraphed  _F.Y.W._  accompanied by a raven. The paper crinkles as you flick the flap back, pulling out what looks like dozens and dozens of letters, setting most of them on the desk as you begin reading. It starts off mild, if nonsensical and strange.  _Your eyes are the color of dewy lavender, I wish to drink from them for the rest of my days. I want to kill the sun, for when it sets, for it believes it can dare mimic the colors of your body, and it should be a crime to do so._  Right. Weird. You shuffle the papers around and start with another one, and, oh god. There’s no easy way to say this, um… It’s a sex letter. Blood roars up into your face as you  _try_  to read just a bit.  _I want to feel you inside me, your powerful thighs moving back and forth, oh, my love, how I would whimper your name, I would say it in the worship of your co-_

 

Nope! Nuh-uh, you  _cannot_  deal with that now. You have to switch out the letters again, picking something that hopefully doesn’t describe the Sinner’s little friend in great detail.  _I know we aren’t mates, and I am already married, but I love you with all of my heart. I am begging you, not as your monarch, but as a lover, for you to come live with me. I don’t care who knows, Tristan, I have already given two heirs to the crown. The people should be satisfied with that._  All the letters are signed, lovingly, with F.Y.W., the same initials on the seal.

 

Clattering dulled by two layers of wall sends a rush of adrenaline into your system. Taking three deep breaths to calm yourself, you carefully place everything back where it belongs, reversing the locking spell on the drawers, before letting yourself out of the office and doing to same to the door. You just barely manage to wipe the blood from the lock and hop back onto the bed when the Sinner emerges from the bathroom, hair brushed, wearing something extra and overly dramatic, as per usual.

 

 _Act natural._  “I should probably also get dressed,” you say, sliding off the bed and leaving the room without another word. As soon as you can’t see his door anymore, you break into a full sprint, heart trying to break free of your ribcage and flee as far as it can go.

 

You have just discovered one (1) salacious affair, complete with the equivalent of terrible sexting screenshots. That is probably something that you would have been killed for before the curse happened, maybe something you still could be killed for. Would the Sinner rip your throat out? Is he capable of it? Yes. Do you think he would? The jury’s still out on that one.

 

_Note six; scandalous relations with an important someone with, hopefully, a better vocabulary than what a fourteen-year-old princess could possibly possess._

 

Breakfast, for all intents and purposes, is terribly awkward. The Sinner has never really spoken to you during the meals except to give tormenting answers to your questions, but you have never seen him try so hard to come up with a simple conversation. As you absently poke at your selection, you hear him clear his throat.

 

“You are, of course, welcome in my room any time,” the Sinner says it as though it is a great honor, which only ticks you off.

 

“I don’t remember needing your permission to enter wherever I want.”

 

“I know that you have your,” the Sinner twirls his fork around, “little trick. But you need to stop doing that.”

 

You smack your lips and cock your head in a parody of deep thought. “Hm, no… I don’t think I do.”

 

“It is hurting you, leeching you slowly. Dark magic,  _blood magic,_  is a dangerous thing, especially for humans.”

 

“Oh well.” You shrug, spearing a vegetable with your fork.

 

He stares at you, perplexed by your blatant acknowledgment and dismissal of your mortality. The rest of the meal happens in silence, and you leave him once you finish without another word. The Sinner’s face is screwed into deep thought, as though attempting to dissect your argument, and with a tentative relationship blooming, he doesn’t try his luck. The Sinner is reaching out for anything to grasp at, and you have decided it might be best to give him something to hold onto. That doesn’t mean you allow him to get away with any crap, though. You will always jerk back the foothold the second he starts picking at your patience just for the simple pleasure of watching him flounder.

 

You know that he wants something more with every beat of his inhuman, twisted heart. For the moment, though, he seems satisfied to be able to exist in the same room as you without any more knife-related injuries. There are some other things you notice about his behavior, for one thing, he tends to lean forward whenever you change his bandages, as though he hopes you might  _accidentally_ end up kissing him or something.

 

Which is stupid. Because you wouldn’t.

 

Every night, you share his bed, though you think neither of you actually end up sleeping. The Sinner has taken to leaving his door open for you to stroll through as you please, probably understanding that you would just use magic if he didn’t. You haven’t tried going back into his office, you don’t think it matters to go through his things anymore. There’s no need to understand why the curse was cast when you know you can break it.

 

His wounds are healing nicely. The slash along his chest no longer needs bandages, thank goodness, you were kind of becoming weary of those  _powerful thighs_  you had to squat in between to wrap the cloth. The scab has faded into a light blue scar, so perfectly straight it could be mistaken for a strange looking tattoo. The Sinner’s hand, as well, is making some good progress. The blisters have receded significantly, though popped and oozing with pus still. When you ask him to, he manages to move two of his fingers without a hint of pain, so at least you know you probably don’t need to amputate it. You weren’t so sure in the beginning.

 

This time, when you finish wrapping his hand, he says, “I appreciate your assistance with this.”

 

You hum. “Is that your version of a thank-you?”

 

When he says nothing, you arch your eyebrows at him.

 

“I  _suppose,”_  the Sinner amends, looking decidedly anywhere but you, “thank you, even though this  _is_  your fault.”

 

You tie off the last bit of stray fabric and roll your eyes. “That’s progress, I suppose.” A single baby step in the right direction.

 

That night, you lay in bed, staring directly at the ceiling in the hopes of boring yourself to sleep. Of course, this is when you’re thinking hard and long about this plan, how best to execute it, and the timeline you are giving yourself. You sit up, hands smacking your blanketed lap, glaring forward at the door to the bathroom. The Sinner is already awake, jumping from sleep at your quick movement, probably thinking that this is the moment where you try to kill him once more. Instead of brandishing a knife, you turn in his direction.

 

“Hold your arm out flat against the pillow.”

 

“Why?” The Sinner asks, his voice dry and raspy.

 

“Do I really need to explain why?”

 

He obeys.

 

You scoot over, shifting under the blankets, and lay your head near his shoulder, your cheek pressed up against his flesh. Tentatively, moving slowly in fear of startling you, the Sinner brings his other arm around and touches his bandaged fingers to your bare shoulder. And… you won’t lie to yourself. It feels nice to be held by someone for the first time in a long while, even if the person holding you is the Sinner. Your body is still a body that enjoys the physical closeness of another person, and if the Sinner’s softening breath is any indication, he is the same. In the morning, he kisses the top of your head while he still believes you are asleep, once.

 

The Sinner only detangles himself from your limbs once you give him an indication that you are ready to go. “I need a bath.”

 

After a long pause, he offers, apparently prepared for refusal, “my bathtub is much better than the one in your room if you want to use it instead.”

 

You shrug. “Okay.” Inviting him to bath with you would be too much, too fast, but the thought does cross your traitorous mind.

 

Alright, so you did decide that you didn’t care to know who cast the curse, who the Sinner pissed off enough for a long-ass timeout,  _yet,_ it’s always, there, tapping at the back of your head, reminding you of the lack in knowledge every time your mind goes idle. As you sit in the hot water of the bath (the Sinner was right, the tub is far superior than yours), it bothers you, pressing every single mental button, even though you desperately try to think of everything else. Frustration curls around your fingers as you try to forget it, but you quickly realize that you just aren’t angry.

 

Goddamnit, you’re horny, too. It must have been the cuddling. That’s got to be it, the first time you’ve touched another person in so long, a person who radiates sexual prowess, with substantially  _shining_  reviews on his thighs. You are willing to admit it, thinking about sex with the Sinner doesn’t specifically nauseate you. And that is probably very,  _very_  unfortunate. So! You have a  _hold on it._  All you have to do is not look at the Sinner once or think about him, and maybe your body will snap right out of it. This can be handled. Easily.

 

And it is handled,  _beautifully,_  you might add. Until dinnertime. You are standing in front of the table, waiting for the food to appear, tapping your fingers lightly against the wood, when you blurt, “how many people have you ever slept with?”

 

The Sinner looks up from his book. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“Would, say, I don’t know… an ex-lover want to… um, curse you?”

 

He turns back to his book, licking ( _licking_ ) his finger before turning the page, face carefully blank. “That would certainly be something.”

 

“That’s not an answer.”

 

“To which question? The number of people I’ve taken to my bed? I don’t see why it matters.”

 

“It just  _does.”_

 

The Sinner closes the book, setting it down on the table and flicking some invisible dust on the cover. Then he stands, walking the few paces required to get to you with a deliberately slow pace. “What has brought this on?” He muses, stopping awfully close to your quivering body. “Why the sudden need to know such information? Are you perhaps wondering my validity in my private chambers?” His mouth is too close, but you refuse to move. “I can promise you my skill is unmatched.”

 

 _Walk away,_  your brain screams,  _don’t be baited. You shouldn’t want this._

 

“Prove it.” You say, tilting your chin up, staring him square in the eyes.

 

The Sinner smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	6. Unravel

The Sinner leans closer, and it takes every ounce of self-control you have not to shy away in embarrassment. Proximity alarms scream inside your skull, warning you that someone is getting too  _close_  to your skin, and you need to  _back away_  before something happens that you might regret. His breath feels like a gentle butterfly against your cheek, warm, soft, sending little zaps of pleasure running down your spine. When his lips brush against your jaw, it’s like a single spark hitting against a dry bush. His mouth travels, trailing small, chaste kisses down to the crook of your neck. Your core shutters once, the flame taking a moment to catch, but the heat spreads like a forest fire, your body quickly becoming almost hot enough to be feverish.

 

You stay still yet, backside pressed up against the table as the Sinner ravishes your flesh with his mouth, moving from your neck to your collarbone, even having the gall to tug at your neckline with his teeth. Just a moment later, he looks up, almost overpoweringly smug at the sight of your red face, popping back up to give you an impossibly chaste kiss on the lips. He hovers, mouth barely a hair’s width away.

 

“I should be a gentleman and ask you to my chambers.” The Sinner’s voice is straining to remain neutral.

 

“You have never once struck me as a gentleman,” you respond, wrapping your arms around his neck.

 

“Oh?” He arches his eyebrows, amused. “Do tell. What kind of reputation do I have with you?”

 

You think back to the letters in his desk and the numerous rumors listed in the journals. “You are a Grade-A  _Whore.”_

 

He  _laughs,_  eyes wild with a lusty intensity you have never seen before. “A whore, you say?” The Sinner muses, grabbing for your hips and massaging the clothed skin between his fingers. “Would you have me to fuck you like a filthy whore, then? Take you like I am a dog in heat?”

 

“I don’t know, do you think you can handle being treated like one?“

 

At your challenge, the Sinner’s mouth curves into an almost sinister smile. With a single motion, he swipes at the unfilled dishes lining the table, the pottery shattering against the unforgiving marble. The  _thrust_  of his pelvis pushes you up onto the table, your legs wrapping around his waist. Oh god, you can feel his half-hard erection already, pressing up against your thighs as he begins to grind. The sweet,  _sweet_  friction that you have been missing nearly brings you to tears as a wave of wetness begins to seep out from between your thighs.

 

You reach out, pawing blindly at the clasp of his cape until you manage to pull on it just correctly for it to release, the long, flowing cloth easily dropping to the ground. Next, you grab a fistful of his shirt, bringing yourself up to kiss him almost hard enough to hurt. “This. Off.  _Now.”_

 

“Yes, ma’am,” the Sinner says, approvingly, as though his obedience to your orders sends a thrill of blood spiraling down to his cock. Slender, pale fingers yank the hem out from the waist of his pants, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it carelessly somewhere behind his shoulder. Wasting no time, you raise your hand and palm one of his pecs, his blue-tinted nipple sharp with arousal. Your fingers glide up to his collarbone, skin so much more smooth and soft than you had imagined in the dead of night, red face pressed against a pillow to anchor yourself in reality. He definitely exfoliates, there’s no question about that.

 

The blouse you have on is a mess of buttons, all of which you can barely manage to get off. The Sinner hastily pulls at the straps of your undershirt, helping to get the cotton over your head, exposing your chest. Once more, he bends over to kiss you, hard and possessive as he guides your hands to undo the buckle of his belt. After kicking off his boots, the soft, black trousers slide down his legs, quickly followed by his undergarment. Thighs? Just as powerful as described. Cock? Phantom bursts of pleasure burn inside your core as you look at it.

 

You kiss him again, glancing down almost absentmindedly at the belt on the floor. An idea hits you, a weird, but sexually exciting idea that makes your muscles quake with anticipation. “Hey.” You pat his arm once, pushing him away to reach over and pull a chair out from the table. “Sit here.”

 

“I am intrigued.” The Sinner does as you ask, watching you with a primal gaze as you bend over to retrieve the long strip of leather. It’s thick, tough, you yank on it a few times to test its durability, and it seems sturdy enough. You pull the Sinner’s arms around the back of the chair. It takes a little bit of finagling, but you manage to weave the strip around his arms and wood, buckling the belt before checking for firmness.

 

Satisfied, you swing around, your skirt hiking up around your knees as you straddle his bare waist. “If you want out, just tell me.”

 

He kisses just below your collarbone, tongue lashes out for a taste. “Very bold of you to assume this could hold me should I want to leave.”

 

Good enough.

 

Through the layers of clothes, you can still feel the steady pulse of his erection. Your hands brace on his shoulders as you thrust forward, a hot spasm of pleasure blossoming from your core rewarding your efforts. The kisses have turned quickly to something ferocious, a war between your mouths that leaves your lips swollen and your lungs breathless. The muscles in the Sinner’s arms strain against the binding, his pupils blown, a quiet rumble coming from his throat. Emotions that aren’t yours seep into the back of your mind, like a floodgate partially opening. The desperation to hold you is nearly sending him into a delirium, adrenaline rushing through his veins. Only the thrill of being at your mercy keeps him from breaking free and fucking you up against the table.

 

Your fingers touch his temple as you place your forehead against his in bewilderment. “What’s this?”

 

“Our bond,” the Sinner whispers against your mouth. “Our souls yearning for each other.”

 

You move your head, pressing your cheek against his to listen. There, along with the beat of his heart, is a warmth twisting out from his soul and reaching up for yours. It feels… adoring, as though he would worship you like a goddess should you ask. You chest squeezes as you pull back, taking a moment of silence lest you start crying like a babe. Nothing, no one, has  _needed_  to cherish you so dearly before in your life, it’s overwhelming.

 

The buttons holding your skirt at your waist are large but relatively easy to undo. You have to take a step away from the Sinner’s lap in order to make the undressing as smooth as possible, the thick fabric dropping down your legs with a muted  _thump._  Next, you yank the laces of your shoes loose, kicking them off with what you hope is a decently fluid motion, now left in the frilly mess of your underwear. The Sinner jerks against the leather, eyes following you with the focus of an apex predator, his breathing growing frenzied as your fingers pull at the ties, letting the last bit of clothing slip from your body. Muscles quivering, you take a step towards him, stopping just before your shins touch the seat of the chair.

 

You get on your knees, like you have done so many times before, hands braced on his thighs. The growl emanating from his throat is something primal, savage, chest heaving as you lean closer to his throbbing cock. Innocently, you close your fingers around it, pulling the violet head closer to your mouth. Your tongue licks down from the base to the tip, following a trail of bitter precum, before closing your mouth over it. The Sinner  _gasps,_  the leather straining from his frantic jerking.

 

Smugly, you swirl your tongue around his head once, then let go, an audible  _pop_  sending a shiver down your spine. You push three fingers into your mouth to wet them, sliding them down the length of his cock and down to his balls. The sounds of his uneven breathing? Music to your ears. Every sharp pant fans your core’s flame, a rush of arousal beginning to drip from your thighs. You close your mouth around his dribbling cock, and quickly prepare yourself.

 

His size isn’t particularly impressive, it’s the shape, the  _curve_  of his length that sends little zaps of anticipation through your body. It’s as though his cock was sculpted for your body, to find that spot inside your pussy that makes your toes curl and your vision to blur. You move down on him, taking the length in further, tantalizingly slow. As the head hits the back of your throat, you feel your gag reflex try to rear its ugly face, though you quickly manage to keep it down. You bob your head, once, and that’s the queue the Sinner takes to begin thrusting, his cock gliding back with ease. For balance, you grab onto his hips, staring at him demurely even as drool starts to drip from your chin.

 

“Fuck,” the Sinner hisses, his voice nearly choked from pleasure, “mate.  _My mate.”_

 

You’d never thought you would enjoy hearing those words coming from him, but you were wrong. Eyes shut, taking careful breaths from your nose, you let out a soft moan around his cock.

 

“It’s been so long,” the Sinner chokes, his voice shaking. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to cum.”

 

His cock leaves your mouth as you move, tongue out, trailing up his abdomen to his collarbone. “Then cum,” you say, hand wrapping around his length, “slut.”

 

A white ribbon bursts from his cock, catching your stomach, dripping down part of your arm. When you kiss him again, he melts, no longer trying to fight you for dominance. As soon as you pull away, he whispers one word, “more,” a plea against your lips.

 

You straddle him, his cock settling against the lips of your pussy, thrusting forward once to see his reaction. His back arches against the back of the chair, a glassy look in his eye as his cock begins to harden again. The skin-on-skin feeling is  _glorious,_  you can’t help but let a sigh of relief escape your lips as you begin to grind into his lap. A tense kind of heat grows inside your core, little flickers of pleasure running through your nerves as you move against the Sinner.

 

Once his cock is reasonably erect, you guide it towards your pussy, as slowly as you can manage. First, just the head, you don’t want to seem too eager or greedy. Your chest heaves as your breath quickens, your fingernails creating little crescents in the Sinner’s shoulders, though he doesn’t seem to mind the pain in the slightest.

 

Further, you need to go further. And-  _oh,_  it’s so  _good._  Your body screams at you for not doing this sooner, not satiating your needs  _sooner._

 

“Tell me,” he says, pressing an open-mouthed kiss on the center of your chest, “how this whore’s cock feels inside you.”

 

It takes a moment for you to manage a sentence, your tongue limp in your mouth. “I’ve-” you gasp as he moves  _just so,_  “had… better.”

 

“Who?” His eyes turn exasperated, almost murderous, as though he is planning to kill everyone you have ever slept with.

 

You shut him up with a kiss, tongue pushing into his mouth, the heat in between your legs almost making you blind with pleasure. Little ideas of snips and dialogue escape your brain, and in the end, the only thing you can manage is a high-pitched whine against his mouth.

 

The Sinner’s smile returns to something unbearably egotistical, though it’s quick to disappear with a moan as you begin to grind once more. Blood roars in your ears as you move, his  _whore’s cock_ massaging areas you didn’t know existed. You bury your face in his neck, biting the skin where his shoulder begins, leaving a darkening mark for anyone to see. His skin tastes salty as you kiss and lick the bruise better.

 

You can barely control your rhythm, moving blindly to the desires of your flesh. There is no sensuality to your actions anymore, only mindless carnage, every motion enacted to further the tightening in your core. A few moans escape, barely, from your mouth as your panting becomes labored, your eyes blurring around the edges, the tipping point approaches and,  _and,_

 

stars,

 

_sparks,_

 

your core clenching around his length in the first of many spasms, and you  _gasp,_  you  _moan,_  tears threatening the corners of your eyes as your orgasm ripples through your core. Something hot bursts inside your pussy as the Sinner cums a second time, a growling coming from his chest as his eyes close and his thrusting spasms.

 

Aftershocks follow, shivering echoes that curl around your muscles as you kiss the Sinner lazily, soft, and long.

 

You untie him, slipping off his softened cock, sperm dripping from between your legs. The belt buckle is easy to undo, the leather strip loosening around his arms and letting him free. The Sinner rubs his wrists, still careful of his injury, but looks ultimately pleased nonetheless. On the other hand, you aren’t exactly sure how to feel, a strange sense of… not shame, per se, but an overwhelming feeling that you  _should_  be experiencing shame grabbing hold of your heart and squeezing roughly. You take in a large breath to try and fill the void collapsing inside your lungs.

 

The Sinner doesn’t give you time to mourn, spinning you around and pressing his mouth against yours, one hand on your bare hip, the other cupping your chin. “I believe we are both in need of a bath. Nothing but the best oils and soaps for my mate, of course.”

 

Unsurely, you nod.

 

“I would love nothing more than to sweep you off your feet, mate, and carry you up the stairs.” His injured hand strokes at your cheek, the bandages fraying from being handled roughly. “You will have to forgive me, there.”

 

The heat of the water soothes your steadily aching muscles, and the Sinner drops in some kind of sweet-smelling salts to further aid relaxation. He leaves you alone,  _thank god,_  without even asking you in a self-satisfied sounding tone if you need him to join in.

 

The porcelain of the tub that you lay your neck against is the only source of coolness to balance out the heat, and so you press up against it, staring blankly at the ceiling.

 

You just slept with the Sinner.

 

Freshly pressed clothes are waiting as you get out, lip chewed in thought. As you leave, fully dressed, you find  ~~your mate~~ the Sinner sitting on the bed, carefully looking over a crystal glass he always keeps on his side table in the very image of  _absolutely not waiting for you to be done._  With a single movement of his fingers, he gestures you over.

 

“Mate.” The Sinner picks up the arm with your mark, bringing it to his mouth and kissing it so tenderly you want to start crying. “I hope you found my skills more than adequate.”

 

 _”Your_  skills?” You snort, pulling your hand back. “Boy, I was the one doing all the work, since, if you remember, you were  _tied to chair.”_

 

“Oh, of course,” the Sinner nods as though the memory just came back to him. “I suppose I’ll just have to prove myself further, then.”

 

Before you can open your mouth to even formulate a response, he switches places with you, twisting around to the floor and pushing you onto the bed. As he begins to tug at your skirt, you warn, “I just had a bath.”

 

The Sinner bends over and kisses your clothed stomach. “I suppose I should wait for tomorrow then, hm? You’ve already had your fill of me.”

 

You wack him with a pillow, aiming for his shoulder.

 

The Sinner is quick to pick up the nearest decorative cushion. “You shouldn’t start wars you can’t finish,” he cautions, much too late. Another pillow smacks him straight in the face. For the first time since you’ve met him, the Sinner is shocked speechless, but only for the briefest second.

 

“You little  _minx.”_  His smile is is downright  _devious._

 

* * *

 

A pinkish light beckons you to wake. The Sinner is dead asleep still, mouth slightly open as he breathes, arm outstretched to touch your shoulder. The blankets are twisted and pulled up from the sides of the bed, limbs tangling so thoroughly in the material you struggle to remove yourself without alerting your bedmate. Silently, once the last of your body is unrolled from around the sheet, you slip off the bed, the floor cold against your bare feet.

 

Your muscles ache, but not, you think, in a particularly bad way. The dull pain feels… good. Like the sting of the wind when you drive with your windows down, or the salty bite of water when you open your eyes in the ocean. It’s the kind of pain that reminds you that you’re alive, that you’ve stepped to a different part of your life. As you walk down the long hall towards the stairs, every step reminds you of your conquest, your mouth still tingling from the lazy kisses you shared with the Sinner into the late hours of the night.

 

The climb up to the tower is mingled with anxiety and hope. Your chest is close to heaving, your head is light, thoughts that you hadn’t allowed yourself to think growing in the back of your head like a vine, overtaking everything else. The thing is, though, you are too terrified to even  _want_  to hope, but it’s still there, deep inside your chest, waiting for you to slip.

 

Actually stepping through the threshold takes a moment. Internally, you try to prepare yourself for disappointment, yet, even still, hope nearly paralyzes you with desire, with the  _need_  to wish. With a single step, you enter the room, nearly vibrating with the forbidden excitement. You walk, careful to dodge the slurry of papers and books strewn about the floor, around to the desk, and you find… you  _find…_

 

The glass still enclosing the jewel.

 

Tentatively, your hands touch the square, hoping that it would open by contact. Nothing. Tears menace your eyes as you try to find a seam, a crack in the glass, something,  _anything,_  to tell you that you are on the right track, but there is  _nothing._

 

Just as silent, you walk back downstairs to the Sinner’s room, settling back into bed.

 

And you force yourself not to cry.

 

The Sinner wraps his arms around you, as though sensing your distress. You manage to fall asleep for a few more hours, resting your head against his chest, lulled by the steady beat of his heart.

 

You opt out of breakfast, walking down straight to the library instead. Hope, you’ve killed like a dog, strangling it with sorrow, so it never rises again. Now on your agenda is, once again, to find a master curse breaker, and you are becoming more and more defeated with every passing moment. Also, the second item on your agenda, probably way more important than the first; finding some kind of magic birth control. As you flip through the catalog, you see nothing under  _birth,_  you have to flip through the pages listlessly until you find a small section dedicated to  _fertility._

 

There looks to be one or two for specifically stunting the ability for kids and not the opposite, so you try to memorize the area it’s in, a jumble of numbers, before wandering off to find it. The book is  _thick,_ definitely heavy, and looks like it could be possibly the dryest read you will ever have to force yourself to process. You manage to hold it, the joints in your arms quick to protest, and waddle over to a study table.

 

The Sinner finds you there, turning the pages, a scrunched up expression on your face. In his hands, he holds a single teacup and saucer, the steam slowly rising off the colored water. No cape, today, and his shirt is loose and unbuttoned to give you a decent view of his chest. This might be the first time you’ve seen him without a complete outfit. “That book appears riveting, mate. Would you suggest it?”

 

“Sure, you might need it soon.” Currently, you’re at erectile dysfunction, which you have stopped at only to satiate your morbid curiosity. Apparently, there are a couple of kinds unique to the different  _shapes_  a fae’s dick can come in. There are also illustrations!

 

“Trying to figure out which category I belong to?” The Sinner reaches over the table to flip over the pages twice, tapping the familiar shape with his index finger.

 

You snort, rolling your eyes as dramatically as possible. “Thanks. I was just  _dying_  to know.”

 

“So glad I can be of service.” Then, after a beat, the Sinner slides the cup and saucer in your direction, though you note he doesn’t specifically  _say_  it’s for you.

 

“Oh, thanks.” You don’t touch the porcelain yet, too enthralled in trying to find the chapter with uteruses. It  _says_  “male and female fertility” on the cover, so… where… are… Here. A beautifully calligraphed page announces the new section, the border lining the page so intricate in its detail that you take a moment just to admire the artistry before reading the intro. Yeah, yeah, fluff and filler, where’s the part where it tells you how to put a lid on your ovaries?

 

The Sinner says nothing to interrupt your thoughts from processing, apparently satisfied to watch you read. Which, in itself, is kind of a distraction, since he’s not really doing anything? It makes you feel like he’s strategizing, or is about to execute some type of plan. Even more strangely, nothing happens, even after a long while.

 

When you look up, the Sinner is still there, watching you with a strange intent that you cannot name. When your eyes meet, the corner of his mouth turns up into a smile.

 

And that’s when you feel it.

 

It’s the air, you realize, that tastes different. A sigh, a fresh breeze rushing through the halls as though the building had been holding its breath for years. It smells suddenly like spring, like life, something startlingly beautiful and still terrifying with the sudden transition.

 

You look at the Sinner. He looks at you. And you  _know._

 

The race to the tower is a blur. You can barely feel your legs, nor your feet, as you run as fast as your body can manage. Pain is a distant memory, even as you force yourself up the many flights of stairs. Again, that sickening feeling,  _hope,_  rises in your chest even though you thought you had ended it. But it’s back, twice as strong, and you think you might explode. Into the room you stumble for the second time today, brain numb to anything else but the case, you had to get to the  _case-_

 

There is no case. As though it had melted into the floorboards, or evaporated into thin air. The velvet pillow is precisely where the case used to be, on the table, sitting pretty. But on it, the jewel, and you think you are going to explode into tears on the floor. Reverently, gently, the Sinner lifts it, holding it close to his eyes, looking for a trick or any kind of deception.

 

“This is it.” His voice is muted, careful.

 

“Where… where does it go?” You manage to speak, your heart almost spasming against your lungs.

 

“Where the soul of the land belongs. In the Earth.” The Sinner grabs your hand and pulls you back down the stairs, back to the main floor, and stands in front of two familiar doors, the same doors you had first tried entering who knows how long ago. When the Sinner grasps the handle, a loud  _crack_  echoes around the ceiling and walls, the sound of something substantial unlocking itself. As he pushes against the wood, you brace yourself for the cold.

 

As the morning breeze hits your face, you find it not bitter, but…  _pleasant._  The first signs of spring scatter around the courtyard, patches of snow slowly melting, just three flowers blooming in the thorny bushes. The statues weep as the ice encrusting them slowly turns to water, running down the stone in steady trickles, feeding the almost green bits of grass growing around the pedestals. The sunlight shines the most  _remarkable_  warmth on your face, the outside air like a balm on your sore lungs.

 

The Sinner stops abruptly, bending over to look at the ground, his good hand outstretched to touch the soil. On his knees now, not caring to get the wet dirt on his pants, the Sinner uses his bare fingers to dig a small hole, setting the jewel reverantly inside. If you didn’t see the stone melting into the ground, you wouldn’t have believed it happened, and as it is, you have to pinch yourself as it turns to liquid, seeping down into the soil… gone.

 

A movement catches your eye. Turning around, you see one of the statues pulling the veil from their head.

 

“Um…” You grab onto the Sinner’s shoulder, trying to point in all the directions the statues are in, every single one of them climbing down from their pedestals, pulling various decoratives off their bodies.

 

The Sinner stands, bandaged hand on your arm, pulling you just a step closer to him as the statues approach. People, you realize, hit with the harder with the understanding that these must be  _his_ people, the citizens of his estate, all frozen in time while the curse played out. Old, young, some faces you think you can recognize, others complete strangers, all gravitating towards their leader, their duke.

 

“Citizens of Nantosuelta,” The Sinner’s voice is suddenly more powerful than you had heard before, as though the curse was somehow draining him, too, of energy. “I am relieved to see you again.”

 

All eyes veer to you, a tense kind of anxiety washing over you with their gaze.

 

“My mate.” The Sinner clarifies, the smugness returning to his voice. “I will give you all a proper introduction, of course, but for now I need to meet with my heads of staff. Ladies, gentlemen, others, my main office.”

 

You have to almost jog to keep up with the Sinner’s pace as he heads back  _inside,_  even though you want to lay out in the melting snow and let the sun shower your skin in its natural heat, but you also don’t want to be by yourself among his people. Not yet. So you walk briskly next to him, through the main hall, up the stairs, entering the small library you had first broken into. The Sinner is quick to take a seat on the velvet chair, beginning to dig through the cabinets and drawers, muttering something about needing parchment.

 

It’s in the third drawer. You reach over and open it for him, grabbing a small stack and placing it down on the desk.

 

The Sinner looks at you with a hint of suspicion. “How did you know?”

 

You arch an eyebrow at him, because  _really,_  can he not figure it out, just as several of the requested people walk through the door. All of them are in various stages of confusion and anger, though one has a face so blank it’s probably still partially stone. As soon as they stand just before the desk, the Sinner places a hand on the small of your back.

 

“I’ll meet you back in my room,” he says, an order disguised as a promise, eyes flickering over to the door for you to leave.

 

Pissed, but too uncertain about putting up a fuss, you march out of the office, shutting the door (careful to not slam it) behind you. It takes a full minute of fuming before you decide to wander somewhere else because if the Sinner thinks you are about to obey his every whim, he is sorely mistaken. Before you can storm off to the library to let your anger simmer over medium heat, you just about run head first into a quickly moving servant.

 

“My apologies, my lady!” He says, taking a good step back and  _bowing_  in your direction.

 

“Dude, you’re fine.” You hold up your hands to show that you’re unharmed, and without weapons. In the servant’s hand, you spot a white envelope, a cherry red seal closing the flap like a kiss. “What do you have, there?”

 

“An urgent message from the  _king,”_  the servant nervously holds it up just high enough for you to see what you think is an outline of an owl in the wax. “Addressed to the duke. It arrived just a moment ago from a carrier raven.”

 

“The duke? I can get it to him.” You hold out your hand, forcing yourself for the first time in months to smile encouragingly.

 

He stares at your hand, then shakily back at you.

 

“He’s in a meeting,” you add, “and he’ll be in there for a long while. You look awfully busy, I was just trying to help, but,” you fold your hands back together forlornly, “if you don’t want me to do so, then-”

 

“Thank you, my lady!” The servant thrusts the letter back to you, bowing even more deeply. “Everything is so busy now!”

 

“Not a problem.” You take the envelope, your fingers closing over it with an iron grip. “You go do what you need to do.”

 

As you walk towards the Sinner’s room, not because you’re suddenly interested in obeying him, but because you need a quiet place to read the letter, you rub your thumb against the wax seal. Something in your stomach squeezes as you trace the initials,  _F.Y.W.,_  an owl glaring at you with judgmental eyes.  _A letter from the king,_  the servant had said.

 

You step into the Sinner’s room, quietly locking the door.

 

No. No way.

 

Overtaken by curiosity, you rip open the seal, pulling out the letter. You skip over the introduction, tossing the first, then second, then the third page onto the floor until you find that recognizable signature. It is no longer in the secretive disguise of simple initials, yet the handwriting is easily the same.

 

_King Fiacre Y. Wildbriar IV_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's theme is _I Fucked My Way to the Top_ by Lana del Ray.


	7. Separation

You sit on the bed, cross-legged, hands folded together so hard your fingers might accidentally break under the pressure. Anger bubbles through your body, growing, morphing, simmering as you glare a hole into one spot in the wall. There are a lot of reasons why you feel this unbridled rage, and as you wait for the Sinner to walk his fine but infuriating ass into the room, you try to precisely pinpoint the exact ways you are going to unleash all hell on him.

 

And, when it all comes down to it, you’re mad at yourself for caring enough to be mad in the first place, because you are supposed to be away and  _gone._  All this time, trapped in this house, trying to outsmart a Fae, you’ve worked so hard to think of it as a blessing. The last things that could be traced back to you, the car, the phone, simply burnt to a crisp, the remains probably found by now. If you are exceptionally lucky, you will be presumed dead by now. In this day and age, being entirely off the radar is so  _goddamn_  challenging to accomplish, that you might have even briefly entertained the thought of staying longer to guarantee your legal death.

 

If worse comes to worst, though, it would be really,  _really_  easy to spin the truth in your favor. You were abducted by a cult, a crazy fucking lunatic who wanted to indoctrinate you into his ‘court.’ He kept you locked in his house, made you wear homespun victorian clothes, all the while claiming that the heart of the land is trapped and the only way to free it is if you, his  _soulmate,_  would love him dearly.

 

The door swings open, the Sinner stepping through the threshold. He must have immediately noticed you in the dark, staring at him in the shadows, because he doesn’t dare take another step further after shutting the door.

 

“Tonight we are having a banquet,” the Sinner says, “though tomorrow there is going to be a more adequate celebration. I’ve already arranged for a seamstress to-”

 

“Sit down, Tristan.”

 

At first, you don’t think he realizes the implication of your statement, after all, any of his staff could have told you his real name. But he hears the anger and impatience in your voice, so without a word of argument, he walks over and sits on the far side of the bed.

 

“Do you want to tell me about who cursed you, and maybe why?” This is his last out, the last branch you are extending to him in friendship. The Sinner cannot lie, no, but withholding some critical information, especially when it could affect you negatively, is just as bad.

 

“I don’t see why it matters, it’s all water under the bridge now.” He sounds confident in his statement, giving you a smile you can barely see from the fading moonlight.

 

“Well, I say it matters, and I would like to hear it from you.”

 

The Sinner turns his head from you, a gentle aura of bitterness wafting off of him through the bond. “It’s over now,” he says quietly, “really, we should just continue on without looking back.”

 

The sharp prick of the needle digs deeper into your finger than usual, an unsteady wave of rage flushing through your blood. You just have to  _think_  the words now for the light to appear, the glow bright enough to light the entire room. In your other hand, the most recent letter from the king, of which you had been comparing to the others you had found, scattering them around the bed in an almost organized, but more importantly, dramatic manner.

 

“I beg to fucking differ,” you say, trying your best to remain calm. The light on your finger fizzles, sensing the anger burning inside your chest.

 

At first, you don’t think he realizes what the papers are, a blank, glassy stare overtaking his face, but you can pinpoint the moment everything clicks in his brain. His eyes narrow, his jaw sets, and he glares up at you with an indignant air, obviously upset that you would dare go through his things, but you are beyond the point of feeling any semblance of guilt at the invasion of privacy. A long moment of silence reigns over the room, the Sinner trying to scrounge together something to say in response, an excuse, maybe a misleading statement, growing more and more furious with every passing second. You let him flounder, though as soon as he opens his mouth, you beat him to the punch.

 

“Look,” you say in the reasonable tone you can possibly muster, “I’m not the type to care about who my partners have been with before a relationship- but this?” The threatening letter waves in your hand. “This is something I  _should_  know about, because it could affect  _me,_  not just you.”

 

The Sinner takes the letter, lips straining into a line as he reads the contents, glancing up at you quickly as he finishes. “I would never let this happen.”

 

“Just like you would never let your entire county or whatever you rule turn to stone while you are trapped inside your mansion?” You scoot off the bed, some of the more scandalous letters following your lead and fluttering to the floor. “I believe that you would try, I don’t actually think you would succeed. Where is the seamstress meeting me, again?”

 

 _“Wait.”_  He says it like a command, as though he deserves that you do as he says. All you have to do is take a larger step away, arching your eyebrows in disbelief for him to repeat it, in a much quieter tone, “wait.”

 

You stand there, arms crossed.

 

“I will keep you from danger, you don’t understand-” the Sinner takes a deep breath, rage and desperation making his eyes wild with fervor. “No one can challenge the validity of a mate’s place, not even the king. There are laws that not even royalty can break, if Fiacre- the  _king,_  truly tries to take you from me, then he could be easily overthrown.”

 

“How nice,” you nod faintly, not particularly caring about his declarations. “And the seamstress, Tristan?”

 

He tells you, voice clipped, and you follow the directions down to where an army of dressmakers wait. You act like a duchess for them, standing on a pedestal, holding your arms out as they continuously get arranged in different positions. Your mirror’s reflection glares back at you with equal ferocity, though you manage to swallow your exasperation long enough to seem like an absolute doll to any of the servants you interact with. The last thing you need right now is animosity from the people paid to make your food and have keys to every lock in this house.

 

“Um… so,” you turn on your most sweetest, respectful voice, as though you are about to plead with a hardcore professor to give you an extra assignment so you can bump up your grade, “the thing is… I was wondering if there’s a way you can make… say, a little pocket to keep a knife.”

Immediate response: “Which hand do you draw weapons with?”

 

You like these people more by the second. “This one,” you respond, waving it once.

 

After, the final measurements for, frankly, a fantastically beautiful ballgown for tomorrow night, one of the maids helps you into a quickly altered outfit. There is, after all, a fancy-pants dinner being held tonight, and all that could be quickly fitted to your measurements is a fluffy, puffed up mess of tool and fabric that nearly makes you vomit just at the sight of. Maybe it’s your nerves, but you feel extra queasy all of a sudden.

 

Dinner, for all intents and purposes, is an absolute fucking nightmare. For one thing, you don’t want to subject yourself to the scrutiny of the earls, barons, whatever the parasitic twats who hold some form of rank in  ~~Tristan’s~~  the Sinner’s court are. Especially since the two of you are still clearly still upset over the earlier argument. Well, you are, anyways.

 

The Sinner sprawls over his seat at the head like the ruling class he is, a goblet of wine in hand, carefully eyeing the acrobatic entertainment with a kind of fascination that is just teetering the line of sexual. You leaned forward slightly, trying to find where his gaze is landing, figuring out that he seems to be following one gymnast in particular. Which, you don’t think you have to even say, is at the very least  _annoying,_  especially after he tried halfheartedly to convince you that staying is a  _great_  idea.

 

You pick at your food halfheartedly, rest your chin on your hand, doing your best to look  _bored_  and not  _vibrating with resentment._ One chance, you were thinking, one more chance, one more night, wait until after the huge celebration to make your decision… but the Sinner is really not helping his case right now. And, when you really think about it, you have never actually  _seen_  his social behavior because, up to this point, there have only been the two of you. If he thinks you are going to lift a finger to fight for his affections, boy golly does this dumbass Fae have another thing coming.

 

After the dancers, someone from some neighboring land steps forward, bowing so deeply you worry his head might go through the floor. “Great, esteemed-”

 

“Let’s not waste my time with pleasantries, good sir,” the Sinner waves his hand good-naturedly, “rise and state your intentions.”

 

“Of course, my lord,” the envoy quickly obeys, “I come bearing gifts from my Duchess, she is very relieved to hear of your return.”

 

“I was never gone, just held up.” The Sinner’s lip curls up ever so slightly in disgust. “It would do everyone well to remember that.”

 

“Of course, my lord, a thousand apologies from my land-”

 

“How  _is_  Máirín doing?”  ~~Tristan~~  interrupts, taking a leisurely sip of wine. “Is she well?”

 

The envoy hesitates, sensing a loaded question. “The Duchess is in good health, blessed be the Earth Mother.”

 

“Blessed be,” Tristan echoes, “that is good news, I suppose. There is something rather humorous about that,” he chuckles dangerously, “you see, while I was trapped here for  _so_  very long, did the good Duchess try anything to free my people?”

 

The trembling shake of the head is the only answer the envoy gives.

 

“Interesting how Máirín only bothers to fret  _after_  the fact.” Tristan taps his chin thoughtfully. “But then again, I suppose, who am I to judge? It’s not as though  _every single person in this room did the same,_  except you,” he pats your hand, “my dear.”

 

You don’t bother mentioning it was under the threat of death.

 

Tristan turns back to the envoy.  _”Do_  continue.”

 

After a moment of hesitation, the envoy gestures to the side. A woman rises from her seat at the table, walking gracefully, hands folded, to the center of the floor so that Tristan may get a good look at her.

 

“May I introduce the Duchess’ niece and ward, Saibh of Dionnia.”

 

The woman curtsied gracefully, her perfectly sculpted strands of black hair not daring to betray her even as her head tips forward.

 

“Rise,” Tristan’s voice seems a little too pleased at this introduction, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of turning his way.

 

Saibh of Dionnia stands, her purple mouth curving up in a demure, yet sweet smile, an invitation of sorts dancing in her eyes. “Pleased to meet you, my lord.”

 

“Oh, but the pleasure is all mine!” Tristan rises, gesturing to the musicians to begin playing. “Might I have your first dance?”

 

“I would be most honored, my lord.”

 

You watch as Tristan walks to the floor, bowing slightly to Siabh before kissing her hand. Eyes swivel towards you, the court gauging your reaction, and it takes every ounce down to the very last drop of self-control you possess in your body to not give them anything. Underneath the table, out of view from the vulturous stares, a fork bends between your fingers like putty. You make yourself stay there, every beat of movement like a prick into your skin, every step of the dance tearing something within you down to the foundation. You let the anger roar in your veins like a boiling river.  _Don’t forget this, don’t forget this, don’t forget-_

 

“My lady?” A servant touches your arm.

 

A jolt of surprise knocks you out of that headspace, realizing that four or five songs have already cycled through. “Yes?”

 

“More wine? Your cup is empty.”

 

Your eyes swivel back to the crystal glass you had drained entirely, held just beyond of the servant’s reach. “Actually, I think I’ll turn in now. Headache. Thank you, though”

 

“Of course, my lady.” The servant bows, stepping out of the way as you quietly stand, walking out of the dining hall, sticking close to the walls as the many dancers giggled to each other. Someone points at you as you slip through the entrance, and you can only imagine what rumors they are coming up with.

 

No way. There is no way you can stay here, not after  _whatever_  that was.

 

As much as it felt strange to wander the high rising hallways while they were completely empty, it felt even stranger to bump into a few wandering people, since you are used to the quiet. Now you don’t have the privilege of breaking down as soon as you are out of eyesight from Tristan, you have to make sure you are behind a very much locked door.

 

You’re stupid. This whole situation is stupid.  _Tristan_  is stupid. It’s stupid that you can’t think of a better word than  _stupid_  to sum up your frustration.

 

As you quietly shut the door to his room, you try to come up with a list of things to focus on before you leave. Item one on the agenda; change into something that matches the narrative of being locked in a maniac’s basement. This… puffy  _monstrosity_  will probably raise more questions than it would answer if you are caught by local law enforcement. After struggling with the back buttons for a few minutes, you realize that getting out of this outfit means calling for someone to help, which honestly, letting someone see your mental breakdown is definitely one of the last things you would want to do, but…

 

You walk over to the door, ready to try and catch a passing servant, when it swings open to reveal Tristan, shirt unbuttoned, arm on the braced against the frame.

 

“You left,” he says, an accusation of sorts.

 

“Yeah, and what about it?” You scowl, once again trying to get this crime against fashion off your body.

 

He shuts the door, pulling a key out of his pocket and locking it after him. “People will talk.”

 

“Gee, I wonder why. I’m sure you can come up with an adequate excuse.” If ripping this thing to pieces is the only way to free your body, so be it. Before you can find a loose seam to start yanking, Tristan spins you around to face the wall, unlacing the ribbon before working on the buttons. Finally-  _finally,_  the dastardly thing slips from your shoulders and pools at your feet.

 

His lips are cold against the heat of your skin, a shiver running through your spine as he places a kiss on your shoulder. A sigh escapes your lips, your eyes fluttering shut on their own accord as-

 

_Don’t forget._

 

You take a step forward, away from him, fueling the anger. “That girl- Siabh. What’s her deal?”

 

Tristan reaches over, placing a reassuring hand on your arm, the one with the mark. “The Duchess of Dionnia wishes me to marry her.”

 

It feels like you’ve been strapped to a table, arms and legs bound at your sides. “Interesting. And?”

 

“And what? I probably will have to.” He tries to lift your wrist up.

 

You jerk away, spinning around to face him. “What?”

 

“Darling,” Tristan says, words almost slurring together, “a political marriage will mean nothing to me, not the way you do! We are mates, bounded by fate. Our souls are made for each other, but-”

 

“So, basically, I’m your side bitch?”

 

“That is a rather derogatory way to say it, although technically, she would be the side bitch.”

 

You put your hands on your hips, fully prepared to rip him a new one, when a gleam catches your eye, on the other side of the bed. It’s so faint you might have missed it if you had been turned even slightly away. On instinct, you dive, taking Tristan with you to the ground as a bit of wind tickles the back of your neck, a telling  _thump_ booming in your ears as a knife buries itself in the wall right where your head had just been.

 

The assassin is already pulling out something else, and goddamnit, you wish you had the little knife pocket built in your underthings, but you decide that the embedded weapon will be good enough. Tristan is trying to do something magical, looking stressed as nothing happens, and you can feel it, something sucking the energy out of the air like a black hole. There, around the assassin’s neck, you see a glow like a black light, outlining a rune of such power you can  _taste_  it.

 

In the exact moment you pull the knife from the wall, the assassin makes a fatal mistake. Times like these, snap judgments are made, and Tristan has been identified as the more significant threat, the one that needs to be taken care of first. The assassin takes a step forward, not paying attention as you carefully aim, weighing the balance of the knife while summoning all the training you had tried  _so hard_  to forget.

 

Then you throw it. Not hard, no, the spin would go out of control. Not gently, either, you need the point to pierce the ribs.

 

A sickening sound, one of bones splitting apart and organs being torn through. The intruder falls to the ground, gurgling and choking with their own blood as their lung collapses. If that is, the Fae even have lungs where humans have them. By then, the Sinner had collected his wits, rising to his feet and standing over the limp body, much too late to do anything of importance.

 

He looks at you, perplexed, brows furrowed in deep thought, before turning back the assassin as they wheeze their last breath.

 

“Who are you?” He breathes, and at first, you think he’s talking to the assassin, but no, he’s speaking to you, the person who cut down another with the confidence of someone who has killed before.

 

“It didn’t matter to you five minutes ago, so it doesn’t matter now,” you say because you are leaving, and that is a can of worms he doesn’t need to know.

 

He exhales, long, defeated. “There are many ways I have failed you, mate.”

 

“Stop calling me that.“ every time you hear that word you want to slink back into his arms.

 

“I will find out every detail of your life,” Tristan promises, quietly, “because you will tell me, willingly, whether it be in bed during the early mornings of our day, or during our leisurely strolls through the courtyard. Every detail, every heartbreak,” he takes a step towards you, placing a hand on your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear, “your hopes, your dreams, your favorite colors, your favorite music. Best of all, darling, you will name every person who has ever harmed you, and I will find where they are and take them apart.”

 

You let out a puff of air, almost laughter but dry, unhumorous. “Bold of you to assume anyone who has slighted me is still alive.”

 

Tristan’s smile is bloodthirsty, cold, and as he leans over to kiss you, you feel the livid anger radiating out from him at the audacity of the assassination attempt. “I will be back,” he says, “I must go alert the guards for intruders, but,” his fingers graze your hips, “my gratitude will be shown later, in full.”

 

“I expect plenty of naked groveling,” you say with a haughty air. He kisses you again, a quick peck on the mouth, and leaves.

 

You wait a few minutes, listening at the door to make sure he isn’t taking care of business within earshot. Once you are confident he’s gone, you lean your head out and catch the first passing maid. “I need some pants, please and thank you.”

 

One of  ~~Tristan’s~~  shirts is fine to wear, and while you blatantly lie at yourself that it’s an efficiency thing, you know you really just want to have his scent. The fabric… should be silk, but for whatever reason, your nipples are just not having it, the material feels almost coarse against the tender flesh, which is strange. You try to ignore it. The pants come just a few minutes, the servants working like clockwork, and you slip them on without further thought. You walk out the Sinner’s room, across the hall, down the stairs.

 

You pass dozens of servants as you weave your way through the great hall, passing some drunk but still partying nobility. Guards and soldiers rush somewhere important in a flurry of motion, most likely a security briefing introducing some better protocols, but none of it matters to you. One mission. One purpose. You stroll out the front door like you fucking own the place. No one stops you, no one dares even glance in your direction. Word must travel fast.

 

The air is crisp with the freshness of spring, the smell so welcoming and beautiful it almost brings you to tears.

 

You walk, still, out through the gates of the courtyard,

 

down the road,

 

to the town, away, far from him.

 

And you are free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	8. Afterwards

The car’s engine purrs like a kitten, so much better quality than the last junker you had driven down this road so many years ago. In the dead of night, on this stretch of forest, only the high beams of your car lights illuminate the way in front of you. The moon is buried in layers of clouds, the summer wind breathing a sigh of coolness through the slightly open windows. After assuring yourself the road is clear, you adjust the rearview mirror down ever so slightly to make sure the passenger is buckled safely in her car seat.

 

Your daughter is dead asleep, her breathing apparatus hissing with every intake of her lungs. Thin, snow white hair covers her features as she slumps forward, the odd plastic on her face seemingly not bothering her in the slightest. You breathe a sigh of relief, feeling almost guilty that you can do so, no pain, no struggle, just the simple workings of your brain and lungs that take no thought at all. With a stab of parental self-blame, you turn your eyes back to the road.

 

Even though the GPS pings that you have arrived, you already recognize the area, though it has been six years. You tap the breaks, slowly coming to a stop, looking over the familiar gate that stands tall and proud against the night sky. Breaking and entering is your new specialty, so busting open the heavy metal, even with a magical air to it, is the simple task of getting out of your car, gripping the padlock, and saying the words of Ancients. The lock melts off like acid, and with a swift kick, the gates swing open for anyone and anything to stroll through. Back in your car, you roll in, turning your lights as dim as they can go, parking about halfway through the courtyard.

 

To wake your daughter, you gently tickle her foot. Her eyes flutter open, irises the same color as yours, almost startlingly  _wrong_ against the ethereal paleness of her skin. 

 

“April, baby, we’re here.”

 

You unhook her from the breathing apparatus, she’s fine without it for short periods of time, and unbuckle the straps of her car seat. She lifts her skinny little arms up to you, mouth quivering from being woken up so late. Lifting her up is almost too easy, her weight well under the national average, her arms and legs clinging to you almost tight enough to be uncomfortable. After collecting her little backpack, you slam the car door shut, walking towards the monstrous manner, butterflies charging around your stomach at high velocity.

 

Already you can hear the dangerous rattle of your baby’s lungs as they struggle to accomplish their function, the cancer slowly strangling her little body from the inside out. Already, you have gone over every possible thing you can do to aid in her recovery, you have screamed on your knees and begged an uncaring god to strike you down instead, you have stolen, pleaded, bought almost every medication on the market, but nothing is working, and April is getting  _worse._

 

And so you fall back to the last option.

 

There are no guards posted on the outside of the house, there is already magic in place to make any unwanted visitor to suddenly remember they have something very important to do somewhere far away. There are servants inside, though, and they recognize you the moment you step through the door. Eyes quickly fall to your daughter, faces growing pale, whispers starting to circulate.

 

“Where is he?” You demand, your voice hard from a single year of suffering.

 

“In the- in his main office, my lady.”

 

You walk through the halls like you own the place, your memory sharp as though you had been here just yesterday. The first guards you see are posted at the door of the office, two, one clearly younger than the other. The elder one, you see, knows who you are, and signals the newer guard to lower the weapon he is drawing.

 

“I need to see him.” You say, voice calm, yet demanding all the same.

 

“The duke is in a meeting-” the younger one starts, but you are quick to interrupt.

 

“I think he’ll want to cancel that meeting. Now.” You arch your eyebrows at the older guard and glance down to your baby, her eyes already fluttering back shut.

 

The older guard opens the door without a word of argument, revealing a group of armored Fae standing around a very exhausted-looking Tristan.

 

He opens his mouth, ready to berate whoever opened the door, and looks up. Words die on his lips, his skin turning ashen as he stands, eyes wide. Relief, anger, and then, when he looks at the child in your arms, realization mingles with shock, bordering on  _terror._  You don’t give him a single moment to formulate a thought, so as he processes the information, you speak.

 

“Tristan of Nantosuelta, I have come to make a bargain.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Open ending!
> 
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